


The Champion

by White_Rabbits_Clock



Series: Smoke [1]
Category: The Hobbit
Genre: Alpha! Dwalin, Alpha! Thorin, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Bilbo, Crafty! Thorin, Hurt/Comfort, King Thorin, M/M, Omaga! Bilbo, Omega! Nori, Overprotective Thorin, Possessive! Thorin, Protective! Thorin, Sassy Bilbo, Slaves, a/b/o dynamics, alternate universe- no gold sickness, alternate universe- no smaug, dangerous bilbo, silent bilbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-15 14:37:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3450764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Rabbits_Clock/pseuds/White_Rabbits_Clock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin, after succeeding his grandfather, is king of Erebor and Alpha Prime Under the Mountain. To his people, he is a hero for breaking down Erebor's slave markets and ending the threat to Ereborian omegas. To his enemies, though, he is strange. Often referred to as a "weak" Prime, it's believed that Thorin can be usurped, and the slave markets (along with all the gold from it) can be restored.<br/>It's amidst this budding trouble that Thorin meets Bilbo, a strange omega, and the only slave left in a caravan haling from the Iron Hills. Because of it's origin, Thorin can't even touch Bilbo, and he'll have to use everything he's got to free him. That is, if he isn't done in first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Omega

**Author's Note:**

> This work isn't beta'd, so tell me if there's any errors in inconsistencies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Lithir watch Linir's champion in the colloseum.

THORIN

 

He can’t say he noticed this… thing he’s noticed… immediately.

The caravan of travelling merchants is lead and mostly owned by a dwarf bearing the name Linir. Linir is, hands down, one of the most charming dwarves Thorin has ever met. From what the Ereborian king can see, his people are taken care of, as are his livestock. Even his omegas, for all he sees them as worthless, are clearly fed and taken care of.

Linir’s merits and marks in his favor are so high that he might even be a friend of Thorin’s. He might have earned the dwarf’s respect. Except, of course, in one regard. He has the unfortunate habit of seeking out the most unsellable of his slaves and putting them in the ring with the savage pack of dogs that scent intruders long before they’re seen when the caravan’s on the road.

That may have been okay, except for the fact that it’s a fight until the near death, and Thorin knows it’s not only a way of encouraging submission in his stifled slaves, but Linir actually enjoys the troublemakers’ pain. So no, they aren’t friends.

It is as Thorin is sitting on his throne watching another slave being led into the arena that he picks up a stronger surge of inherent glee of what’s about to befall the creature. Thorin looks closer at the man in chains.

He’s only half the size of a man but clearly fully grown. He’s ugly by dwarven standards but cute to Thorin. His hair is honey blond and matted into dishwater grey-brown. It jerks about his head as he fights the one’s dragging him in the first place. When they get him into the center of the arena,  they attach his ankle shackles to a heavy metal ball and quickly trot out from the way they came in.

With escape cut off, the dwarf king steals a glance at Lithir.

“Who is he?”

“Lad’s an ‘obbit. Odd one too. They don’t usually fight so much. From wot I was told, this one was supposed ta be even more docile.” Thorin nods, eyes on this strange creature.

“What’s his name?”

“Ach, like I know. Lady wot gave ‘im to me never gave me a name.” The gong is struck and the key to the Champion’s manacles is tossed to him. He swiftly undoes the chain and then picks up the end of it. As the wolf-dogs circle around him, fangs out, he uses his wiry arms to begin swinging the heavy round ball in circles, effectively developing a temporary barrier. He takes out one of the five that way. Then he has to let go because another’s made it over his weapon. He ducks out of the way, and it is then that it reaches Thorin.

The fear has begun to radiate from the man as one of the wolves clips his calf with their claws and he stumbles and has to dodge. As it gets stronger, a tiny thread of something sweet is there with the rest of the scents.

Thorin subtly takes it in and freezes (still subtly) when he realizes its origin.

The alpha in the ring is making that lovely scent.

Alphas don’t smell like that, though. They smell stronger, hardier. They aren’t afraid of four (now three) wolves. This leaves Thorin with one conclusion.

The man in the ring is no alpha. That’s an omega.


	2. Of Drunkards and Spies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin gets Linir drunk in order to gain information while he sets a plan of his into action.  
> *This chapter and the next have been edited because in chapter one, I have an OMC named Linir and in chapter two and three, I wrote Lithir.

THORIN

He’s obviously experienced, this omega of Linir’s. Even though he was at least a little bit scared, he took out all five dogs impressively. The crowd of dwarves in the stands of the colosseum roar to their feet, wanting more. Thorin does the politically correct thing and clap politely, before turning to Linir.

“That’s quite the champion you’ve got there.” Linir leers at Thorin in a way that’s supposed to be charming, but Thorin can’t seem to be taken in. He can pretend though.

“‘E’s not really the champion. E’s just the best I can come up with, for now.” This gives Thorin a pause. If the omega in the ring, who’s now facing off against another round of dogs (these ones are bigger and more desperate), has not been claimed as a champion but merely keeping the title warm, then maybe Thorin can convince Linir to give that strange creature up.

“What is he? I’ve never seen one like him.” Linir waves a hand in dismissal.

“Oh, I got ‘im from this lil’ bit o’ land between the Blue Mountains and Bree called the Shire. It’s inhabitants are called halflings. Peace loving things, they are.” In the ring, the omega dodges to the left and spins at the last possible moment, just barely missing the snapping jaws of another dog.

“He doesn’t look very peace loving.” Thorin says curiously. Linir shrugs from his chair next to Thorin’s.

“That’s what I said, so imagine my su’prise and delight when the little fuckah tries to run away and actually knocks out one of my guards!” He gives a soft chuckle at that, and Thorin can almost taste the venom in his voice. Ten to one says that “guard” was probably his previous champion or someone of equal or greater esteem.

“Why did you only take one?” He shrugs.

“I’ve actually taken a few. Hobbits don’t make very good slaves.” Thorin nods, eyes still fixed on the omega in the ring. He’s fast and fierce, Thorin will give him that. He’s obviously picked up all his tricks on the road, because there’s nothing trained about him, and yet he’s yet to sustain a single hit.

One of the dogs is down, now, and the omega’s got another in a frenzy. He’s managed to mount it, and now sits with his legs wrapped around it’s neck while it bucks and tries to claw its attacker off it’s back. It’s not working.

“It’s not like you to choose a slave for a champion.” I murmur quietly. Linir smiles again.

“It’s not like a slave ta be good enough to be a champion. E’s not my champion, by the way.”

“Right. Sorry.” In the time the two of them have been talking, Bilbo’s killed the dog he was riding, beaten another two, and now faces down the last dog. It’s always the most dangerous dog, because there’s no distractions, no nothing to aid in its defeat. Bilbo’s got his hands and feet spread, looking like he’s trying to corral the dog, but he’ll move faster that way.

When the dog charges, Thorin knows he doesn’t stand a chance. Thorin turns to Linir again.

“So. About that feast.” Linir’s eyes light up- feasts mean ale. Ale means drunkards. Drunkards mean an easy fuck- and he stands and claps Thorin on the shoulder before the both of them stand. In his excitement, Linir has moved past Thorin and hasn’t stopped to wonder where the King of Erebor is.

Thorin is standing next to better company- Dwalin. He inclines his head towards the Captain of the Guard.

“Tell Nori I’ve got a job for him, yeah?” Dwalin nods and moves off, and Thorin uses his superior height to easily catch up with Linir. He can already tell it’s going to be a long night, but Balin did not bust his ass to teach Thorin things like patience and political correctness so that he could shirk at something like a feast with a gluttonous caravan leader.

Besides, if he’s going to keep the omega, he’ll need to learn more about Linir. Feasts are excellent for that sort of thing- Feasts mean ale. Ale means drunkards. Drunkards have loose tongues.

…

As predicted, Linir is thoroughly drunk and loose tongued halfway through the evening. He’s also very talkative.

“...So I was walkin’ up to tha tavern ta have a drunk or three, and this pert little thing walks right past me. Sha ingores me! Itsa lak ah wasn’ ev’n thah! Had ta teach that ‘un a lesson, I did.” He tells Thorin. The king feels a piece of paper slip into his hand, which has been hanging off the edge of his arm rest for exactly that reason. Subtly, he looks at it.

_At your service._

He takes out the stick of charcoal he always keep with him for exactly this reason (it isn’t the first time he’s had his spymaster do a little spying while Thorin does a little distracting) and rights a few words down without looking. He is, after all, paying rapt attention to Linir’s tale.

“Sos she says ta mae, when ah bum’ inta hah, “Excuse me!” an’ keeps goin’! So ah saes ta huh, ‘mind yer nammers, yer talkin’ ta thuh mastuh of the M’roon Car’van here! Sos she ‘pologizes pr’fusely an’ ah ivaht ha back ta mah rooms ta ease huh emb’r’ssment and the li’l bitch runs away! Can you im’gen thaht? Runnin’ ‘way from mae?” Thorin nods. He slips the note back to his Spy Master.

_The Champion_

__

“No, I really can’t, brother.”* Linir takes another swig of ale.

“Sos I chases hah down and got the man’cles on huh and then oot of thug blue the li’l bitch’s daddy’s theuh, holl’rin’ bout improp’ness an’ filth an’ shit and ah told him he had thuh mos’ disres’tful kid in Brae!” Thorin shakes his head in sympathy, aware that he has to be not only a great host, but a pliant one as well, if he wishes the halfling to stay here.

“Bah thuh tahm that whole f’asco was over, Brae weren’t vury harpy wi’ mae, so I kep goin’ west and stum’led on thuh Shear! Im’gen the boonty of a land with pushovers stahndin’ on a mountain of fud!” He collapses back into his seat as his tankard is refilled. Thorin just nods, he knows this part is important.

“Sos ah went to pokin’ round and ran ‘cross a pret’tious li’l thing an’ she tells mae thaht there ah no slaves in Hobb’ton!” I ahsk wheuh I maught aqueer some an’ she tells mae that thuh last hoose ahp thah lahn does inded have whot ah’m lukin’ fer, baught ah’d ‘ave to bae curful cuz the one livin’ thur is smaht ahs a whip and ah wouldn’t get ah s’cond chance.

“Sos ah wait ‘till the li’l thing comes out to ‘is garden and snag ‘im there! Thaht’s wur ah got mah ch’mp’on.” Thorin nods.

“Quite clever of you,” As Balin has said many times, patience is not only a virtue, it’s also a weapon, for those who know how to use it. An hour of drunken ramblings just told Thorin that (a) Linir is not above rape and he sees it as an accomplishment, and (b) the halfling was never supposed to be a slave and was likely sold out by his own kind. Thorin plays the role of sympathetic interest as he waits for Nori to do his work.

He calls for Linir’s tankard to be refilled as the dwarf starts in on another story, this one pertaining to one of his “conquests” before he to to Bree. He casts a glance over his hall. There are quite a few of the young and beautiful dwarrows that Linir would consider a “conquest”.

It wouldn't be too hard, considering that they wouldn't dare offend the Master of the Maroon Caravan because of his “friendship” with the dwarven king himself. it’s a precarious position, really, since if Lithir did something to one of his, he’d have to break from his supportive and pliant persona. If he does that, the Halfling may very well be lost to him. He turns back to Linir and gets the man another tankard. No one in the mountain would be taken tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"Brother" can mean friend, under the right circumstances. Thorin and Linir are not related.  
> Since Linir's getting increasingly drunk throughout the conversation, I've written him as increasingly hard to understand. If you don't know what I've written, shoot me a comment.  
> A/N  
> -The Shire and the Elves do not engage in slavery.  
> -Anyone can be made a slave, and the less power/family/friends around, the more vulnerable you are.  
> -Most slaves are omegas, with betas and alphas only captured for a specific purpose.  
> -You can be born into slavery as well as caught/sold  
> -You can free yourself by running away, but you run the risk of getting caught again.  
> -You can buy your freedom, but you can be re-enslaved if you don't have anyone to support your freedom.  
> -If you're freed by your master, you usually don't stray far from his/her side, because while being freed by your master comes with a certain layer of protection, the farther you get from him/her, the less that applies.  
> -Dwarven communities don't allow a freed slave to become re-enslaved (this doesn't apply to runaways until said slave has been free for five years.  
> -Man communities don't allow useful freed slaves to become re-enslaved.  
> -The last way to be enslaved is via punishment.  
> -The last way to free yourself is via Right of Passage.  
> -Please thank Yoru_Hana for all the questions about this 'verse, because she's/he's the reason for this A/N.


	3. Covert Scones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nori begins the first stage of working his magic on Bilbo and speaks with his brother.

NORI

This champion of Linir’s is indeed worthy of the title, if he’s attracted the attention of Nori’s king.  Nori thinks this as he slips along the warren of the wagons of the dismantled caravan. Near the center is a cage. The wheels and floor are wood, with metal bars that rise five feet off the floor before being capped by a metal roof.

In the middle of the floor an iron half-ring has been nailed down. A rusted length of iron chain leads away into the shadows where the torches from the city don’t quite light up the back end of the wagon. A single, dirty foot is the only thing Nori can see. Part of a manacle can be seen wrapped around the unusually large appendage.  

Nori can smell the damp of moulding straw where he stands at the door to the cage. He considers going in, but he knows that if this champion of Linir’s freaks, Nori will be caught in the crossfire if he’s inside the cage. He’s been alive too long for that. He looks around, goes back to check on the single guard (you don’t need much to watch empty wagons and a solitary confined creature) and returns.

“Hey,” he whispers, and the foot draws back into darker shadows with the soft clink of chain. Nori stands solidly for five minutes. Anyone else would have left, assuming that the champion did not wish to be bothered. He is not just anyone. He’s the spymaster, and he’s had a lot of experienced with the silent and the shy.

He takes out the scones he filched from the kitchen and lays one down on the wagon bed, along with it’s napkin. He wouldn’t put anything going into the halfling’s mouth on this floor. The rustle of chains is heard again, and a small, dirty hand reaches out and snatches the scone off the napkin. It vanishes back into the darkness. Nori lays another scone down. This time, there’s a longer hesitation. Nori realizes that the creature is probably afraid of poisoning.

He picks up the scone and takes a bite before putting it back down, along with a second one. Both are gone, and the sound of chewing is heard. So he hadn’t eaten the first one after all. Nori leans against the bars of the cage and begins to hum a tune. He’s had to track down many a shy child and this works everytime. Nori, after all, has a lovely voice.

The light of the torch a few feet away shines dully against a third of the wood-and-iron cage. Nori can sense the omega sitting just inside the shadows, intently listening. He adds words to his humming, always staying quiet, always alert.

He sings until his voice is sore. He sings past the point where the guard drinks enough to pass out. He sings for hours, past the expiration of the feast. Long after the chains have stopped clinking and dawn begins to break outside the mountain, footsteps alert Nori to company. He sets his final scone on the napkin and, the moment it’s been snatched, he makes the napkin disappear before Nori himself is gone, on his way to report to his king.

…

Thorin, is (predictably) busy in Open Court, so Nori takes himself a nap, gets a meal in him, and proceeds to read up on the reports from different minions around the city. He takes his time, making sure to do everything carefully. He hates times like this.

That one stretch of days or hours betwixt the first in a series of missions and its descendant is maddening for the street-thief-turned-Spymaster. He also does his best paperwork during the weight. Unfortunately, it hasn’t built up enough to consume him all day, so he makes himself busy and visits Dori.

The teashop is having a slow day, so Nori lazing around and talking to his older brother is perfectly fine by the classy dwarf. Unfortunately, said dwarf knows his brother way to well.

“So when do you report?” He asks quietly when the customer he was serving let the door close, lavender tea in hand. Nori’s shrugs his shoulders.

“Dunno. No earlier than this evening, though.”

“You usually move faster than that.” The thread of sympathy in Dori’s voice is why Nori loves him. Despite the fact that Dori abhors stealing, spying, plotting, and assassination foiling (always did and always would), he would always feel bad for Nori whenever the adrenaline fades in the middle of a mission. He would always try to sooth the antsy, get-up-and-go feeling that came with everything he wished his younger brother wouldn’t do.

“There’s been a complication.”

“Hm. I take it Linir’s causing you a bit of a communication problem?” Dori says softly, setting the glass of cool sweet tea on the counter in front of his brother. Dori, of course, had seen right through the bastard’s charming facade. He always saw through people. That’s why Nori’s not particularly worried about his brother knowing him. Dori knows everyone, and yet no gossip makes it past those lips.

Nori takes a drink, loving how the overload of sugar washes down his throat and leaves a pleasant aftertaste.

“He should be free this evening,” he says with a shrug. Dori smiles at him and steps back behind the counter as the door opens.

“Welcome to the Tea Basket. Are you looking for anything specific today?” Nori cast a cool glance at the newcomer… only to see Dwalin.

“Got any black tea, Master Ri?” The Captain of the Guard moves up to the counter next to Nori. he is as good at playing nonchalance as Nori was. So is Dori.

“Yes, in fact, I’m freshly stocked. How’s your day today?” Dori calls from the back as he digs around in his store room.

“Fine, Master Ri. And you?” Nori takes another drink of his tea, eyes watching Dwalin as the big axed and tattooed man chatted up his brother. He doesn’t like dwarves chatting up his brother, despite the fact that it’s usually Dori who starts it.

“It’s been rather slow today. How are your new recruits coming along?” Nori knows that Dwalin has been been to the tea shop before, but he didn’t know Dori had struck up a conversation that was about more than pleasantries. He supposes he should have seen it, because Dori, despite the fact that he doesn’t gossip, knows every rumor and accusation in the mountain.

“It’s going well. I managed to get Minter and Inter ironed out.”

“That’s good. They seem like good kids, if a little high on the pony.” Dwalin smiles, eyes trained on the back.

“True enough.” Dori emerges with a few boxes of black tea.

“How many do you want, again?”

“Three would be good.” Dori gives a small smile as he calculates the price in his head. He opens his mouth, but Dwalin’s already setting his coin on the counter. Nori realizes that he’s done this before.

“My thanks, Master Ri.”

“Bye, Captain.” Dori gives a little wave. With a nod to Nori, Dwalin’s moving out of the door, bag of tea boxes in hand.

“He only said it once,” Nori points out in the impending silence.

“What?”

“You said, ‘how many did you want, again’, and he only said it once.” Dori huffs a laugh and shakes his head.

“Clever, Nori.” The Spymaster shrugs and sips his tea. The note Dwalin slipped him is burning in his sleeve. He finishes his tea and hugs his brother.

“Be careful. I don’t like the look of the Maroon Caravan.”

“Always, brother.” Then Nori is gone, slipping away to read his note as the gongs chime the thirteenth hour. When he is safe within one of his private rooms, he slips the note from his person and reads it.

_Today, fifteenth bell, by your leave_

No one actually knows who the Spymaster is, so over time, the few who do have developed a series of phrases for the notes passed along. “By your leave” means that the meeting place is Thorin’s private study. Nori sighs. He thought he’d have to wait an age for sure, but the fifteenth bell is in the middle of the after noon.

He drags the chamber pot out from the closet and pours a little oil (something he always keeps) into the clean bottom. He tosses the note into the pot, lights a match (another thing he carries around), and watches it burn. He uses the pot and then tosses the piss and the ash into the water closet.

Then he smiles. The game is on.

 


	4. Setting the Board

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin gathers his forces, and Dori has a visitor.

DWALIN

Thorin’s private study is just that- private. None but whoever the king permits comes and goes. It is what Dwalin refers to as his Brain Room. Technical things are not an alpha’s strong suit, but being king requires it. This is why he has a room for nothing but processing information. The Captain of the Guard- an alpha himself- finds it an ingenious thing to have.

As usual, it’s refreshing to be here. Thorin’s smell is all over the place, but without the usual odor of challenge and pride that accompanies any alpha. Linir reeks of these things. The study does not.

When Dwalin makes use of the secret passage behind the large (fittingly oaken) desk, Thorin stands in front of the small fireplace, head browed, thoroughly in Brooding Mode. Yes, Thorin most certainly does have a Brooding Mode. Dwalin goes to stand with Thorin, and the two stare at the flames for a while, Dwalin as lost in his thoughts as his king is.

In the distance, the fifteenth bell booms its lament.

“Afternoon, gentlemen.” Nori says from his place in front of the passage behind the desk. Thorin turns to him and nods. Dwalin just smirks. The spymaster has very bad manners most of the time. It’s rather refreshing to hear him say something like ‘Afternoon’.

“Nori?”

“He’s shy as all get out. Underfed, chained up at night, his cage is covered with dark cloth during the day.” Nori says simply. Dwalin can clearly see the line of Thorin’s shoulders stiffen. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a couple more nights of sneaking out to see him before he agrees to trust me. Then you can start the work on your end.” Thorin visually restrains himself and nods. It won’t do to go mad alpha just now. Not when the omega isn’t his. Not when he may never be Thorin’s.

“What do my people say of Linir?”

“They’re taken with him, but a few don’t like him.” Thorin nods. It’s a game of chance really. It’s going to be tough to keep Linir away from his and purchase the omega at the same time.

“Make sure the only dwarves he sees are… unappealing.” Nori nods. He’s used to this kind of thing. Thorin will be entertaining someone he doesn’t trust, and he’ll have to do a little damage prevention. So he tells Nori what he needs, and the minions make it happen. Nori doesn’t mind it, really. It’s one of his king’s best qualities; meeting his people’s needs before they arise.

“What are you going to do with Linir?” Thorin’s great shoulders rise and fall once.

“Let me deal with that.” Thorin says after a moment. He had learned a lot during last night’s feast. Besides what Linir had told him, the dwarrow had shown him that his eyes were only sharp and hungry when he was sober. It’s very useful. Dwalin’s turns his head in a slow shake. Thorin’s head turns towards Nori.

“Do what you will. Don’t scare him.” Nori smirks.

“Of course not.” Dwalin’s watching Nori when the Spymaster disappears. Thorin glances at him.

“Up for a little fun?” Dwalin meets his gaze.

“What kind of fun?”

“I need to keep Linir’s men distracted.” The Captain of the Guard cocks his eyebrow.

“You seem to be doing a good job of that on your own, Your Highness.” Thorin glowers. He doesn’t like his cousin standing on ceremony when there’s no one to tell them that the opposite is unseemly.

“I only have so much wine, for one thing. For another, sooner or later someone’s going to say it’s unseemly to get drunk in broad daylight, even if I did have enough wine to keep an entire caravan drunk off their arses.” Dwalin shrugs a shoulder.

“What kind of fun are we talking about?” Thorin’s Thunder Face lifts a little.

“His men are rather short tempered, and you have a mostly alpha and mated population of guards. If you could arrange for them too… aggravate Linir’s men into fighting, it would be better than them trolling the markets for unmarried omegas.”

“How do you know it’s going to work?” The Thunder Face comes back in full force.

“You and your guards aren’t my only means of damage prevention, cousin.” Dwalin nods. He expected that. Kings always have ways.

“The lads could use a good change in workout partners. As for Linir himself, what do you want done about him?” Dwalin knows the question’s already been posed, but it bears asking again. Thorin is the kind of person who brings out the nosiness in everyone.

“I will deal with him personally.” There’s something dangerous in Thorin’s face that makes Dwalin relieved to be the Captain of the Guard and not the leader of the Maroon Caravan.

“As you wish, cousin.” Dwalin moves towards the not-secret door to leave.

“One more thing, Dwalin.” The Captain turns back.

“What?”

“The more distracted they are, the easier time Nori’s going to have of it.” Dwalin, son of Fundin, nods. Time for a briefing.

THORIN

Thorin’s sister is, without a doubt, the most desirable alpha in the mountain, second only to him. Should Thorin die or become ill, she will rule as Princess Regent Under the Mountain until her oldest son, Fili, is of age or until Thorin recovers. Politically savvy, dangerous on a dark night, and dosed with a high amount of common sense, she is Thorin’s greatest ally and one of his closest relations.

That is why they now sit together in her sitting room, taking tea. Dis leans back, rubbing her forefinger just below the rim of her tea cup.

“I was beginning to think you’d never find one.” Her expression is a mix of bemusement, relief, and thoughtfulness.

“He’s not-” The Princess Under the Mountain waves a regal hand in front of her face, as though warding off a smell.

“Right, got it, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Elusive is not in love. Back to business. How do you even intend to get to him, let alone retrieve him from Linir?” Thorin shrugs.

“I’m working on that. The problem is what Linir’s going to be doing in the meantime.”

“Yes, the song and dance alphas like him do. You know, for all I bother you about countless flaws in your personality, I’m glad the two of us didn’t end up like him.” Dis’s thoughtful expression has not faded.

“I need you to distract him when I can’t.” It’s not that Thorin didn’t pick up the insult, it’s that he has bigger fish to fry.

“A two man show, then.”

“Two dwarf, and yes.” Dis leans forwards mischief in her eyes. Thorin recognizes that face as the Run For Your Fucking Life face. He’s glad it’s not his life this time. Really glad.

“Then it’ll be my pleasure, brother.”

DORI

He’s behind the counter during a brief lull in business, double checking his math from yesterday’s books (he’d been tired at the end). The door opens, and the tinkling of the bell shakes Dori from his concentration; a trained reaction.

“Good Evening! Welcome to Tea Basket! Is there anything I can get you today?” Dori’s watching his hands as he carefully replaces marker in his accounting book and closes the ledger.

“Actually, I haven’t the foggiest. I was thinking you could show me.” The voice is smooth and melodious, deep and cavernous. It’s heavily infused with the alpha timbre that makes omegas fold. Dori, though, is no ordinary omega. All he does is glance up.

He’s not quite as big as Thorin or Dwalin, but he’s damn near close. His hair is a deep sable color and well taken care of. Silver and gold shine within it, from what Dori can see. His beard is neatly divided and resembles a waterfall branching off into it’s smaller children, only to form one long curtain at the bottom.

His skin is tanned from the sun, his eyes dark and deep set with mirth and strength. His nose is broad and rounded at the tip; a rolling hill. His mouth is thin in a way that’s attractive. He is one of the most beautiful alphas Dori’s ever seen.

The mouth quirks upwards in a half smile. Dori feels caught in that gaze, so he does the thing he’s relied on to bring in business for years: good service.

“Certainly.”

 


	5. Snowball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nori lets his opinion be known, Thorin makes his move, and so do a few others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart on the way! I just have to clean it up!

DWALIN

Predictably, Linir’s men are, in fact, wilder than Dwalin’s guards; spend long enough travelling, and “tame” goes out the window (and into the shit trench). Dwalin, though, knows that his people will adapt and adapt well. He taught them to do that. Linir’s men may be tough and a touch uncontrollable, but they’re set in their ways and fighting styles. Dwalin’s people are not. All in all, distracting someone never used to be this fun.

DORI

He doesn’t like these Maroon Caravan alphas that keep wandering into his store, asking the same question as the first one. “Haven’t the foggiest” indeed. There’s no way in hell that many people don’t know their teas. A lot of traveling dwarves drink it more than they drink coffee (he sells that, too).

The bell to Dori’s shop rings and the grey haired dwarf looks up, mouth open to deliver his short monologue.

“Good morning! Welcome to the Tea Basket! Is there anything I can get you today?” The dwarf in the doorway is an alpha, no doubt about it. So are his companions, who file in behind him; a trio of pheromones.

“Yes. I’ve got something specific in mind.” Dori gives his most brilliant smile, subtly straightening.

“And what would that be?” The alpha’s smile turns smug while his cronies snicker.

“A proposition.” Dori’s smile abruptly drops.

“No, thank you.”

“You haven’t heard it yet.”

“I’m not courting. No, thank you.” The alpha gives the shop owner a patronizing once over.

“It wasn’t a question.” Dori cocks an eyebrow, tilts his head slightly downwards and to the side, and gives them his best bemused, think-twice expression.

“Does it look like I was asking?” The alpha and his cronies scowl. At a nod, they move out from behind him and closer to Dori, who still stands close to the counter.

“I don’t need to ask you, omega.” Dori smirks.

“Yes, you do.” Two minutes later, the door to Dori’s shop is broken, and three alphas lay in a heap in the middle of the street, very beaten and sorely regretting underestimating Dori. A crowd of onlookers glance from the docile teamaker to the strange alphas. Dori’s regular customers all have knowing, shit eating grins.  The dwarf himself leans in the doorway to his shop, arms crossed over his chest.

“Stay out of my life, and we won’t have this problem anymore.” Then the omega disappears back inside to relight the interior. He’s got a door to fix.

As his shop slowly wakes up again, Dori can’t help but think back to that first alpha and wonder if he should have told Nori about him after all.

NORI

He’s not much, really, just skin and bones stretched over and under muscle and sinew. The first time Nori gets close and really sees him, the Spymaster just knows he’s not supposed to look like that. His abdominal muscles aren’t supposed to stand out like that, he’s not supposed to be comfortable with wearing no shirt, but he is.

He stands just inside the shadows of his cage once more, watching Linir’s property watch him. As he’s been doing every night for a week now, he sets a scone and a napkin down, only to have them immediately snatched up.  Every night, he’s stretched his hand and arm farther and farther inside the cage of a wild thing. Every night, the halfling has refrained from injuring him. Every night, the man in the cage has gotten closer and closer to the curtain of shadows, the clank of chains mocking his every move.

Now, the omega is where Nori can see him, eyes narrowed in suspicion for why this… this dwarf wants to talk to him, wants to feed him and make him better. Now, Nori presses even closer, bringing his face nearer and nearer, breath misting in the winter predawn air. He’s got a question, and he’s been doing all this just to ask it.

“Do you want to get out of here?” A nod.

“Do you know how?” A shake of the head.

“Then hold faith, because I believe such a thing will happen soon.” The sound of footsteps is heard by both the figures, and Nori lays down his last scone and begins to slip away. He’s out of sight when he hears it.

The voice that shapes the word hasn’t been used in months. It’s rough and gravelly and it’s hard to believe that the creature it belongs to was ever civilized.  It’s everything Nori knew it would be.

“Why?” He pretends he didn’t hear that near grunt and keeps going. It’s a very good question, but he hasn’t an answer. After all, right now, he’s just doing a little bit of order-following. That doesn’t mean he can’t try to find out, though.

Mischievous look in his eyes, Nori makes his way out of the maze of gutted caravan wagons. He’s got a little fun to have.

THORIN

Open court is, without a doubt, the most annoying thing dwarves ever came up with. Thorin would take it over lunching with Linir, as the fucker’s drunken stories reveal a rather nasty side. The man picks up another thick chicken leg and takes a bite.

Thorin’s only half listening to the dwarf across from him. His thoughts are occupied by the Champion, and how Thorin’s going to wrest ownership from Linir.

“My king.” Thorin snaps back.

“Yes?”

“What do you think of another set of games?” Thorin cocks his head.

“I don’t see why not, but my people have grown used to the wild dogs.” He wants to tell Linir no. He wants to say that the sodding bastard can take his games and shove it up his arse. Vultures play on the weak spots, though. He needs to keep his interest in the halfling strictly business, at best.

“What about a dwarven fighter?” Thorin looks off, thinking.

“Dwarrow on dwarrow, or dwarrow on halfling?” This seems to take Linir by surprise. Thorin does not usually ask so many questions.

“Dwarrow on halfling.” Again, Thorin looks off, thinking of what’s more exciting than watching a champion get the shit beat out of him because dwarves are so much heavier. Then it hits him.

“I’ve got a better idea. What about a tournament? Mine vs. yours, and if one of mine wins your champion stays.” A competition was the perfect thing to say. Linir, after all, fancies himself the best.

“And what reward goes to me and mine?” Thorin looks away and back again. He can see Linir’s starting to pick up on it. That’s good. He wouldn’t want the slimy bastard to figure out what it looks like when he’s actually thinking.

“What do you want?” Linir smiles.

“A reduction.” Thorin arches his eyebrows.

“On which parts?” He knows that Linir’s trying to figure out if he can get away with asking for the whole caravan to be taxed at a lower rate, but he’s not sure how low or how much of the caravan can be exempted.

“All of it. Half taxes for the next time I roll through.” Thorin arches his eyebrows.

“Not this time?” Linir shakes his head.

“Full value, my king.” Thorin nods.

“Though I can’t tell why you’d want that scrawny piece of ass.” Thorin shrugs. He doesn’t explode, and he doesn’t give away his motivations.

“That’s a huge chunk of money you’ll be saving. I want something just as telling.” Telling, amazing, valuable, lovely. So many words for a man Thorin’s only had a glimpse of.

“Huh. I hadn’t thought you the type to brag, King Thorin.” the man smiles and holds up a calloused hand.

“Just Thorin, if you please.” I trust you. You’re my friend. You get leeway. You get slack. Just call me Thorin. A lie if there ever was one; a pleasing lie that’s sweet to the taste.

“Thank you.”

“Do we have a deal?” Linir nods.

“We have a deal, Thorin.” The king gives a soft smile.

“Thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I have a bit of work to do.”

“One more thing.” Thorin turns back.

“Yes?” If the halfling does not wish to stay, you lose your prize.” Thorin nods.

“Good idea.”

“Ah, yes. Good day, Thorin.” The king stands and leaves, making his way out of the small dining room and to his own private study. Nori’s already there.

“A competition?” Thorin shrugs.

“Sometimes, you have to take them where you can get them.” Nori’s head rocks to the left and to the right before his eyes meet Thorin’s again.

“Who’s going to be competing for you?”

“Probably Dwalin. What have you got to report?”

“Oh nothing much. Besides the fact that he spoke to me, anyways.” Nori’s nonchalance is all but not noticed by Thorin as the king turns his face to the fire.

“What did he say?”

“He wants to know why I feed him. I was about to tell him that I’m spying for the king of Erebor because the man wants to own him like everyone else, but I didn’t think that would go over too well.” Thorin gives Nori a baleful look.

“Like I would stoop that low.”

“You cast him as the prize in a competition. I think you would.” As his Spymaster, it was sometimes Nori’s job to confront Thorin on the things he did that really mattered. Thorin snorts.

“Linir leaves in a week. Time’s running out, and he’ll not listen to any attempts to barter or buy him.”

“That’s going to be your main problem when you do get your hands on him: the way you see him.” The silence lasted for a handful of moments, and the response from Thorin was quiet.

“I won’t be putting my hands on him. Not without his permission.” Nori barks a laugh.

“You think he’ll give it to you?” I’ve been seeing him every night this week and believe me you, that one’s damaged in the extreme. You’ll probably never see the day when he’s fine with you smelling his hair. What are you going to do when he wants to leave?”

“Send an envoy with him.”

“When he refuses?”

“Make sure he can fight.”

“When he dies?” Thorin hadn’t wanted to think about that one. The dwarf king falls silent. Nori takes a step closer to his king. The sadness is palpable, and Nori realizes he’s gone too far with this whole thing. Thorin isn’t Linir. He’s not the alphas of Nori’s youth. He’s not any of them. He doesn’t need to be treated like them.

“I’m all for freeing him, but unless he stays free, you might as well just leave him there.” Nori should know. He’s had many a problem with alphas like that: offering riches and gold without stopping to think about the answer “no”.

“Thank you for your advice.”

“So you’ll win him to free him?”

“Yes. Tell him that.” Nori realizes that he can’t let his king walk out like this.

“I think he’d stay, you know. It’s not as if he has anywhere else to go.” The dwarf king laughs.

“That’s not the point.” Nori turns to go, feeling slightly guilty. Alphas, though, never stop to think about omegas. It’s always do do do for them, and everyone who’s not on the wagon has to avoid being crushed by its wheels.

“Nori?” Thorin’s looking at him now, gaze intense and a little bit frosty; protected.

“My king?”

NORI

“It was no accident.” The breath hardens in Nori’s throat as he nods and makes his way back through the secret passage. When he finds himself gazing up at the lovely door to his brother’s tea shop, Nori can’t help but hope that Thorin is right.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CLIFFHANGERRRRRRS!
> 
> Yours, White Rabbit's Clock


	6. History's Making

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dis and Thorin speak of Thorin's take on slavery (and his plans for it). Also, there's a bit of history for you all.

DIS

“You really couldn’t turn him into more of an object, could you?” She knows that her brother’s just doing what he can, but she also knows that this isn’t how you go about courting someone (they aren’t courting yet, but women just know things like this. Don’t argue.), even someone who’s a slave.

“What was I supposed to do? He’s been here for two and a half weeks, and he leaves in a week and a half. Time’s running out.” Dis picks up on the damn near frantic edge to her brother’s voice, and recognizes the Brooding Face for what it is: guilt. Dis sighs.

“All I’m saying is that this is another issue you’ll have to work through if you want him.” She walks up behind her brother and places her hands on his broad shoulders. She digs her thumbs into the tight muscles there. Thorin sits up in his chair and takes a drink of his tea while his sister works her magic.

“It ought to be a sin for you to spend that much time with clucking chickens. You’ve got fucking boulders for shoulders.” Dis never could keep her language in check when it wasn’t required. It’s only required in the Open Court Thorin’s just spent hours in.

“Aye, but it’s not. Do you think he’ll stay?”

“There anywhere he could go?” Dis asks. This halfling who's caught her brother's attention is interesting. Thorin barely holds a groan in. That shit _hurts_.

“He could go back to the Shire, but he was sold out by one of his own,” he finally gets out. Dis grunts.

“Anywhere else?”

"I heard elves are partial to..." Thorin huffs a sigh when Dis works loose another knot through his tunic (his outer robes have been shed). “...halflings…They should help him. Maybe let him stay indefinitely.”

“You think so?”

“I hope so.”

“What makes you sure?”

“I’m not.”

“So you’re going to free a man with no place to go but here?”

“No place for now. that doesn’t mean I won’t see to it that he can get away.” _From me_. It goes unsaid, but Dis knows. Thorin’s just far too caring of the people around him for it to be any different. Even slaves get a soft hand.

Dwarves rarely keep slaves of their own; most of the ones in the mountain are, in fact, indentured slaves or servants. Not all caravans are in the slave trade, but the ones that do usually won’t bring them into the mountain. The only slave the Maroon Caravan had that wasn’t sold is the halfling.

Dis feels a sense of faulty satisfaction at this. Such a thing wasn’t even in existence until a few years ago.

Their grandfather, Thror, was a very great king and Alpha Prime Under the Mountain, but impartial to the needs of those who weren’t free. He called them “the lesser” in private, though it wouldn’t have been good for his image to use the term in public.

Years before Thorin was even born, Erebor had one of the largest, most prosperous slave markets in middle earth. It was great for revenue, but a cruel thing indeed. More blood was spilt in the market on a daily basis than in the mountain for the entire month.

It got worse (by that time, Frerin, omega and Crown Prince Under the Mountain, was coming into his own as a master smith, with Thorin just behind him, and Dis in a close third) as Thror got older. His mind was starting to slip. Things that used to be important lost meaning. Thror was going mad, and Thrain, Beta Prime Under the Mountain was too close to the old man. Their father wasn’t doing anything to curb the vicious, narcissistic, and selfish things Thror asked- nay, demanded- for.

Then the orcs came. Frerin, Thorin, a few months past his alpha presentation, and Dis, still unknown, watched their father ride out, their mother, Nis, Omega Prime Under the Mountain, standing next to him. When he came back, it was with a white sheet over his body, flesh almost perfectly preserved in the frosty winter air.

The funeral was painful for Dis, but not as much as it should have been. Their father, after all, had been neglecting his children for some years by then, so he wasn’t as close as he was supposed to be. He wasn’t as close as he had wanted to be, before Thror demanded his son, and ignored his grandchildren.

Nis, standing next to her daughter, did not cry, either. She had received the same aloofness. There was a different kind of grief there, in her face. Dis wouldn’t have seen it, if it didn’t share a home with resignation. It’s then that Dis, standing in the middle of her family, watching that great stone casket with her father underneath, realizes Nis knew this could happen. She knew their father would get himself killed. She knew Thror would most likely cause it to come about.

Dis saw the knowledge in her eyes, and felt it settle over her as well; a weight to distract from the drowning feeling she has. When Nis takes her husbands seat in Open Court, Frerin on the other side, Thorin next to her, and Dis next to Frerin, there’s a hard look about their grieving mother.

It’s the look of war.

Dis didn’t understand why it was there- their father was after all, cold in his grave- until later that evening while they supped Thror had announced that Frerin, as the Heir Apparent Under the Mountain, needed battle experience. He would be going to replace his father as Commander of the Blue Branch of the large, dwarven army that fought the orcs for Khazad-Dum.

There was a lot of screaming, but in the end, Thror had his way, and Frerin, with his brilliant, tactically sharp mind, went to battle. Three months later, Frerin died in the battle to win Khazad-Dum. Thorin was next. He did not die.

The funeral was painful- far more than it should have been- and Thorin, having long since learned that emotion was a dangerous thing, shed not a single tear. He kept his arm wrapped around their mother and Dis herself, though.

The war was not over. Thorin was next. When he left, his hands were calloused from forge work, roughened from training; scarcely used. When he came back, he had a lifetime of death written across rough skin, burned into his eyes. He was a true alpha.

In hindsight, that funeral was the last straw for Thorin. Frerin was buried in the winter of 2799. In the spring of 2801, Khazad-Dum was reclaimed under the guidance of Thorin, and the man himself proclaimed a hero. That hero was tired though.

Not long after he had returned, Thorin took his first dinner with Dis in more than a year and a half, and he told her that he didn’t ever want to be seen by her as a hero, because heros save lives. They don’t take them.

It was the first of many conversations and it brought a sense of forewarning. Dis could see the gears turning within her brother’s head. She could see how distracted he was. She could tell that things were about to change for Thorin “Oakenshield”, son of Thrain, son of Thror. He had strange friends, he spoke of strange things, and he was always writing, always plotting, she imagined. Things started to pick up when Dis was introduced to a figure who never stepped fully into the light, and another one whose head was covered in tattoos.

The depth of Thorin’s cunning truly came to light. In the last lucid, sane moment their grandfather would ever have, Thorin somehow convinced him to pass on the unlimited part of the crown’s power. Thror, having been relieved of all the technical duties, began to fade into the background. He was still in Open Court, most days, but the underlying weight that came with being king was now firmly on Thorin’s shoulders.

Thorin spent a year as the final power in the mountain, and he taught all he was learning to Dis. In the winter of 2811 of the Third Age, Thorin II Oakenshield engaged in a Right of Passage in order to become the Alpha Prime Under the Mountain. It worked. The summer after, in 2812, Dis presented as an Alpha, and Nis grew mortally sick for the first time.

In the spring of 2814, Nis, Omega Prime Under the Mountain, passed. By that time, Thror’s memory was going. He did not remember who it was in the coffin. He didn’t remember a lot of things, like the benefits of a slave market. After a long year of debate, and another month of carrying his orders out, Thorin broke down the final pocket of slaves in the Lonely Mountain. Eight years after, in the summer of 2822 of the Third age, Thror died of pneumonia, acquired when he left his window open after the servants had already left him.

The funeral was a week later, Thorin’s coronation a month after. It’s been ten years, and next month will make it the eleventh. Thorin is falling in love, and he’ll have plenty of support, thanks to his work more than a decade ago.

“Tell me something, brother.”

“Yes?”

“Why did you do it?”

“What?”

“The slave markets. Why did you get rid of them?” Thorin tilts his head up and gazes at the ceiling.

“Nis was an omega.”

“An Omega _Prime_.”

“Still an omega.”

“That’s not all, is it?” Thorin shakes his head. Dis waits. Her brother always took a minute to voice his thoughts out loud.

“We were supping, he and I. It was before our father died. I think we were eating mutton. He looks at the food, and looks at me, and he says, ‘Why do we need omegas?” Thorin falls silent.

“I couldn’t tell him. I honestly had know idea why there are omegas. I just knew that they were there. I knew that they filled in the cracks of our lives, but I didn’t know anything else. I realized, in that moment, that this is why most slaves that come into the mountain are omegas.

“You know as well as I do that an unmated omega’s as good as the next to an unmated- aye, some mated- alpha.” Dis nods. She did know. Unless they were your One, they were biologically another piece of ass.

“If Nis had lived, if Thror had remained in power any longer, then I believe she would have received the same treatment as the thousands of slaves that passed through the markets. Then there was you.” This gives Dis a pause. Her brother did not often share his thoughts, but when he did, damn, did he surprise her.

“What about me?”

“You know how Thror saw you.” Dis nods.

“Ah, yes, the Extra Under the Mountain.”

“It terrified me to dream. I would see you in a pen, waiting to be sold to the highest bidder. I knew how wonderful you were, how strong, and how that would kill you. All that made me realize that no omega should be a slave.”

“Yet the halfling is one.” Thorin nods.

“I’m trying to fix it so that no dwarf accepts slavery. I believe Dain is this close to implementing his own plans.”

“And the rest of the dwarves? What about the Stonebeards? The Firehands? They _thrive_ on slavery. How are you supposed to convince them?”

“By starting with the Longbeards, then moving on to our hard and fast allies, then trying with our more questionable alliances. I’ll keep going for as long as it takes.”

“I knew you were ambitious brother, but I didn’t know you were suicidal.” Thorin’s face blanks, so Dis elaborates.

“Your court isn’t happy about your brand of monarchy. When Dain follows you- as he undoubtedly will- _his_ court will be unhappy with him. Assuming you can convince Fia in the Blue Mountains to follow you, her court is going to be absolutely _pissed_ with her. Sooner or later, someone is going to get it in their head that if they took out the current alliances and put in new ones, no one will have to worry about losing their property. I’m not saying don’t, but I am saying that when you do, make damn certain you can weather the coming storm.”

“Remember that friend I introduced you to?”

“The one who never told me his name?” The one whose face is still unknown? Of _course_ I remember him!” Thorin gives her an annoyed look.

“I have a plan.”

“You always do.”

“So trust me.”

“What are you going to say when you talk to our more dubious friends?” The way Thorin doesn’t stop to think about what he says tells Dis that this particular reason’s been on his mind for ages.

“It is a sad thing when a people that boasts of sticking together and fighting for one another will not bring themselves to free those that live and work next to them.”

 

BILBO

 

Master Linir of the Firefist clan in the Blue Mountains is not nearly as quiet as the Dwarf With the Food. When he arrives, Bilbo is sufficiently ready, and feins sleep, as it is rather early in the morning (Bilbo knows because bells have chimed the seventh hour not a minute ago).

“Halfling.” Bilbo sits up and looks at him. He doesn’t say anything, because there’s no need for words when in the company of a slaver. They never listen.

“I’ve got a little something for you.” Bilbo just barely avoids scooting backwards (he can’t do that until they open the cage door. It would give him away, after all). When Master Linir is vague, hell reigns.

******  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N  
> -All right, I wanted this 'verse to be detailed, so I rewrote history to fit it (tried to keep accurate dates, though.  
> -The time this story is set in is actually during a decline in the slave trade (what with Erebor not participating anymore).  
> -The reason why Bilbo's being a slave is even accepted is because Thorin hasn't quite managed to expand his "free everybody" policy to other clans, so Thorin can't really tell Linir not to, and at the same time, Linir can't bring a large amount of living cargo in the mountain.  
> -If you've got questions/corrections, please tell me.  
> -Also, Bilbo!!!  
> Thanks! White Rabbit's Clock.


	7. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not happy with my current chapter, and it's time to update... So to appease the Gods of Regularity, I've tried drawing Linir. Have fun with it.

">

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to give me advice if any of you are artists (or, really, just have some advice...).


	8. Memories and Collisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Linir steps up his game, Nori remembers the day he met Thorin, and Bilbo remembers the events leading up to his last day in the Shire.

“I don’t see why either guild should get the forges,” Lord Dainus (sable-haired, approaching his 298th birthday), is, of course, a bit biased (blatantly so) in this matter. The Copper and Gold Guilds were arguing of over a set of abandoned forges that the Copper Guild had started to use before submitting the paperwork to the Properties Division.

Lord Dainus probably wants them himself, as he would directly benefit from those forges going to the Silver Guild, rather than the two (possibly) rightful owners. Thorin gives him a slightly flat glance.

“The forges should go to the Copper Guild. Before the cave in, they were the rightful owners. It would put an end to this whole thing, but that particular cave is property of…” Thorin’s brow furrows as he looks closer at his maps and lists and realized that the cave the forges are built in have two different owners. The Gold Guild is registered to have purchased the cave from the Copper Guild a year before the break in, but the books of both guilds (they had to turn in copies of deed before the cave-in outside the entrance, so these aren’t fabricated) show that the cave was never sold.

A polite cough makes Thorin look up from where he’s gotten lost in his thoughts.

“Right. The forges belong to the Copper Guild, but the cave is registered to both guilds.”

“So who owns the cave?” Thorin steeples his fingers in front of his face as he leans back in his chair. He could already feel the migraine.

“Bring me a senior member of both guilds.”

BILBO

He’s rather uncreative, Bilbo thinks as he twists and dodges the dwarves set upon him. Master Linir could have at least used the dogs on Bilbo instead of these slow bastards. In a break in the fight, Bilbo hazards a glance upwards and sees not one but two dwarves up there, conversing.

Maybe, Bilbo thinks, Linir is not as boring as he seems. Bilbo won’t underestimate him again. He underestimated Lobelia, after all.

…

_“Bilbo!” The hobbit before him had dark hair, tanned skin, and wore a dress-and-pinafore combination. She had large brown eyes and wild curling hair. Her lips were cherry red and her whole being was accented and brightened by the yellow and green color scheme and an ample body._

_Red*, and pink* camellias were woven into her hair, and Bilbo does not even pretend to not know what that means. His shoulders stiffen as Lobelia sits gracefully down next to him._

_“So I was thinking.” The hill they sit on is covered in the new grass of early spring, the oak tree above them providing shade._

_“Were you?” Bilbo didn’t talk much these days; he didn’t talk much when he was a child, either- spent more time trying to get in enough air, he ran around so much. Now he’s thirty three, and attracting the attentions of one Lobelia Sackville just a week after his Coming of Age party._

_“Yes. I was thinking about how lonely you must be.” Bilbo stays still, just waiting for the hammer to drop._

_“I think it would benefit you to marry, soon.”_

_“Do you now?” His voice was soft. It always was, in those days. Even when Ortho managed to catch him up in a game of wits long enough to entice that sharp mind into a little competition, Bilbo’s voice was never very loud. It rarely even approached a normal volume._

_“Yes. The right woman- a strong one to get you back on track- and all the cobwebs of your life will be gone.”_

_“I doubt that.” Lobelia giggles._

_“Of course you doubt that. Everyone who’s lonely doubts it. That doesn’t mean I’m not right.” Bilbo barely keeps the scowl off his face. She’s using his grief against him- offering eternal company on a platter, knowing that he was lost without his mother. She had died but a month before Bilbo’s Presentation Party*, and it had hurt a great deal to sit among the merry making._

_“Bilbo?” Bilbo blinks._

_“And who do you think I should marry?” He doesn’t know why he asked it; maybe he was steeling himself for what followed. He doesn’t prefer to remember it in any detail. Lobelia gives off another honeysuckled giggle._

_“Me, of course! No one else could make you forget.” Suddenly, it’s too much. It’s far too painful to sit here and feign interest in the name of letting her down easy._

_“Lobelia.”_

_“We would be the perfect match, and we could have many children, and you’d never have to remember-”_

_“I’m not marrying, Lobelia. I’m not even courting. I’m not going to forget my parents to be happy, and I don’t want children right now or anywhere in the near future.” In that soft voice, it didn’t hurt as much as it could have, but Lobelia sniffs and sniffles all the same. Her mouth turns down in a pretty pout. Her cheeks begin to redden with unshed tears._

_“I thought you liked me.”_

_“Liking someone isn’t enough for a marriage. It isn’t enough for anything past friendship.” Lobelia’s mouth presses into a hard line as she gets up and flounces off._

_The next day, she was back, but Bilbo did not let her try again. Everyday for a week after that, she wore orchids* and/or orange blossoms*  either in her hair or sewn into her clothing. She continued to ply him with all the reasons he should marry, and Bilbo recognized her love as a false one._

_Every day for two years, Lobelia had some flower that indicated her intent. They were wide and varied and changed with the seasons and Lobelia’s clothes. Bilbo wore but one kind of flower: striped carnations*._

_Her persistence compacted his grief. Her doggedness increased his aloofness. She was by no means a match for the will of Bilbo Baggins. She damn well came close, though. Bilbo, once he realized she had love for his fortune and not for Bilbo himself, should have seen it coming._

_He should have known that Lobelia’s penchant for revenge would not pass over him; not when he held the key to her happiness, and wasn’t giving it up. He should have been prepared when he saw that great big dwarf with the barred wagon bed lurking about town. He should have understood when Lobelia stopped to chat with the man._

_He didn’t. The next day, Bilbo found a dead bouquet* of blossoms containing the most common flowers Lobelia wore on his doorstep. By that evening, he was on his way out of hobbiton, drugged and in the back of the wagon he’d seen the day prior, chained by the neck to the top, and by the foot to the bed._

__

…

Bilbo takes another glance at the black clad dwarf. The Champion’s never seen him before, but he doesn’t like him. Bilbo knows what that dwarf is there for. He’s a buyer, and Bilbo isn’t dumb enough to think his newest owner may be nice. The man needs discouragement. Bilbo nearly takes a hit to the sternum. He attacks his opponents viciously, only to be dragged away at the moment before he would have taken their lives.

Firmly held by arms and neck and chained to boot, Bilbo snarls at Master Linir as the fucker approaches. The dwarf looks away and says something that Bilbo translates into Westron as whip him. The hobbit begins to struggle harder. Not again. Lord, no, not again.

Master Linir turns back to his friend, and Bilbo knows, as he picks up the words he’s discovered the meaning of, that his plan has failed. He’s going to be sold. He’s going to a man who will most likely beat the shit out of him at every turn. He’s going to an unmated alpha. He’s an omega.

As the first whistle of the whip sings through the air, Bilbo feels what’s left of his world shatter apart. For the first time in more than two years, Bilbo thinks of ways to die. He thinks that he could choke on his food or something. He could bust his head on something. He may be able to throw himself at the ground hard enough to break his throat. He could-”

The thoughts wipe out at that first strike. Maybe he could just stay here. He’d eventually lose the ability to care, that way.

NORI

The sixteenth bell has rung when Nori finds himself back in the maze of empty wagons. They’ve extinguished the lanterns, which is the only reason why the Spymaster is even here this early. As he lifts the canvas cover of the halfling’s wagon, he’s greeted by a raw and bloody back.

“Oi, mate, what happened to you?” The kid turns to look at him, tears evident in his large eyes. Nori’s eyes focus on the tag at the halfling’s neck. The metal collar is much the same as it’s always been, but the small loop of metal is not. A small, circular tag has been connected to it by a thin bit of wire. On the tag is an eight pointed star; the emblem of the Starhands of the Blue Mountains.

The kid’s been sold. Nori slips him all of the scones he’s brought in one go, then the thief is gone. The shite just got thrown.

THORIN

His alarm blooms immediately as Nori slips a note into his hand while he’s in open court, but he does not react in any way. He simply sits through the argument going on around him, then excuses himself.

He meets Nori in the mines the king- then Heir Apparent Under the Mountain- first found the spy in.

“What’s happened?” Nori’s got this look on his face that Thorin wants to hug away, but he reminds himself who it is he’s speaking to. Not all omegas should be treated as such. With startling clarity, Thorin realizes that Nori’s expression now is the same as the one from the day they’d first met.

…

_There were many mines beneath Erebor, and several veins had been exhausted. It was in one of these veins that the Heir Apparent had first introduced himself to the quietest dwarf he’d ever met._

_By chance, he’d learned a trick or two in the army about sneaking. By chance, he had come across an exhausted Nori in the same tunnels he’d often used to escape and think. He’d been watching this particular man- just a decade past majority at the time- for quite some time after he’d first seen Nori nicking food from a feast. You didn’t go to war and come back without knowing everything about your surroundings._

_“Good evening.” The prince had said quietly, and Nori had nearly gutted him on the spot- it was written all over his face._

_“Good evening,” Nori had replied after a moment. Thorin had given him one of his rare smiles._

_“Didn’t expect to see you down here.” Nori takes a step backwards involuntarily. He was cornered by one of the most powerful alphas he’d ever seen, and it wasn’t a good thing._

_“I’m not going to touch you, if you don’t wish it.” Thorin wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to say, but he certainly meant it. This omega had smelled funny, like he wouldn’t fit the traditional omega mould. He wouldn’t find out until he met Dori that omegas who have to do an alpha’s job smell like alphas. They act like alphas. They look like alphas. Their true gender only comes out when they are scared._

_Nori- just The Thief, at the time- had looked like death himself was asking him to tea. He had taken another step back. His disbelief was obvious. Thorin learned another thing that day- you don’t bring up contact around omegas like The Thief. Thorin did the first thing that came to mind. He sat down and looked at The Thief._

_“I actually just want to know if you like spying.” Thorin was never one to fuck around when he wanted something. It’s a good thing too, because this is what The Thief responds to._

_“That depends on why.” Thorin had smiled then, and explained a situation that would eventually make Thorin king and Nori his Spymaster. It was possibly one of the most critical moments of Thorin’s life._

__

…

“He’s been sold.” Nori says as soon as Thorin appears around the corner. Shock and utter possessiveness- the need to go and collect the halfling- seizes his system. He sees the look on Nori’s face, though. This is no time to give in. It’s no time to lose control. Not in front of Nori. Not in front of anyone. Thorin’s plan may have blown up in his face, but the game is not yet over. It’s just picking up speed.

“To whom?”

“A Starhand emblem was on his collar.”

“What else?”

“He’s been whipped... I think he’s giving up.” Thorin’s mouth hardens into a line of pure rage. Then, in a voice far too quiet for Linir’s good, he issues orders.

“Make sure that he doesn’t.” Thorin turns to go.

“What are you going to do?” Nori asks, voice quiet in the gloom of the abandonment around them.

“What everyone else does when they don’t get their way: throw a fit.” The evil,Then Thorin is gone, robes swishing back and forth, just barely keeping a lid on his anger. He will explode later, when he needs to. For now, he has more things to set up and men to direct.

…

“Dis.” His sister looks up. As Regent Apparent, she often helps him with paperwork. She’s got the numbers for the amount of food going into this year’s granaries in front of her, and an account of the last decade to her left, a stack of empty papers to her right, and the used ones next to that.

“Brother?”

“He’s been sold.” Her head jerks up.

“To whom?”

“A Starhand.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What’s expected of me. That’s not what I’m here for.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Linir’s not the type to avoid violence. Anything I do is going to endanger you, Fili, and Kili.” Dis’ face pales. Kili is an alpha, and Fili, although the elder, has yet to present, and looks to be leaning towards being an omega.

“Well, then.” They discussed this around the time that Dis was introduced to Thorin’s special friend. She knows what to do.

With that, Thorin is gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N  
> *Some of the flowers have more than the following meanings, but I didn't want to confuse anyone.  
> 1)Carmelias  
> -Red: You're a flame in my heart  
> -Pink: Longing for you  
> 2)Orchids: The chinese symbol for many children; love  
> 3)Orange Blossoms: Eternal Love; Marriage and Fruitfulness  
> 4)Striped Carnations: Refusal; No; I'm sorry I can't be with you  
> 5)Dead Bouquet: Rejected love  
> *Every hobbit has a Presentation Party when their second gender develops. Bilbo was 31 or nearly there at the time.


	9. Shadows and Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin chews Linir out, Linir remembers the day he got into the slave business, and we meet his long-time friend.

LINIR

“For some reason, I was under the impression that the halfling was to be my prize, should I or one of mine win the games.” Thorin’s voice was still in that calm one that kept his court in order. Somehow, though, it sends shivers down Linir’s back.

Linir offers up a charming smile.

“He still is, I’m confident that one of mine will win the games, though. I haven’t been able to sell the halfling, so when the opportunity opened…

“That is…” Thorin stops and takes a moment to find the right word, “... ballsy, counting your chickens before they hatch.” He wants to say stupid.

“A little confidence can’t be accommodated, my king?” Thorin’s expression hardens.

“No. It cannot. You have already taxed my welcome with the very presence of a slave in Erebor- the only slave. The only reason I let him even play in that demonstration you wanted is because I didn't know of his status.” Here, Thorin stands from his throne. He’s in full king mode, and he’s pissed. Linir tries not to shuffle. He steps down onto the highest step, the alpha in him finally showing.

“After that, I let his status remain because you weren’t technically doing anything to him. Technically.” Thorin takes another two steps towards his “friend”. “Then, I heard you whipped him and sold him in the same hour.” Thorin keeps going until he’s reached the bottom of the dias and takes long-legged steps to deposit himself right in front Linir. Nose to nose, he doesn’t look like the pliant wannabe Prime Linir took him for.

He should have disregarded those rumors. He should never have listened the first time around.

…

_The tavern Linir sits in is relatively nice, and the floor doesn’t stink too badly of tossed liquids. What messes are there are covered in straw. He’s got a pint of cheap beer, and tosses it back like it’s water and he’s in the middle of the desert. A conversation is struck up near Linir’s place at the bar._

_“You know how much fucking money that bastard king is costing me?!” Another voice appeases the first._

_“No, Minel, what’s he costing you?”_

_“An unhealthy omega is a tharni*. Every average slave is half a ducat*. Breed-worthy omegas are a full ducat. That alone cost me a shit ton of money. It used to be simple: take a caravan from here to Bree. Sell the slaves that are average or below in the towns of men, and save the better ones for the rich men and dwarves of Erebor and the Iron hills. I’d sell maybe a hundred average slaves round trip, and another hundred in the big markets. I sell around twenty five above average slaves per trip, and roughly one hundred and fifty below average. Calculate that!” The dwarf’s companion takes a moment to think._

_“Damn, Minel! That’s roughly 163 ducats!”_

_“Exactly. That’s what’s left over. As in, after the costs of taking a caravan from here to Bree and after I’ve paid my people, repaired my equipment, and taken care of all the extra stuff, I had a hundred and sixty three ducats for every trip. You know why I got so much?”_

_“Why?”_

_“Erebor, that’s why! You could just take your slaves to Erebor, then buy and sell to build up your fortunes. Then you bring the ones you bought in Erebor to the Iron Hills, and sell them for even more!”_

_“But Erebor’s slave markets are gone…”_

_“So me income’s been cut in half!” Minel groused as he took another pull from his cup._

_“That’s a shame.”_

_“Doesn’t matter. In a few years, a real alpha’s going ta come along and kick that brat off the throne.” Finally, this piece of information causes Linir to interrupt._

_“What do you mean, a real alpha?” Both the ass-kisser an the life-bemoaner turn to face Linir._

_“You don’t know?” Linir shakes his head. The two alphas in front of him share a glance. Finally, Minel speaks._

_“The king of Erebor’s touched in the head.” Linir’s brow furrows. He knows the man’s crazy, but if their telling him about it..._

_“How touched?”_

_“He’s touched enough to send three of his descendents to their deaths in the same war. They weren’t even alphas. Prince Thror was a beta, and his eldest, Frerin, was an omega. They both died. After that, the second son, Thorin, went to war and came back. He’s an alpha.” Linir had known that two out of three had died, but he hadn’t known of their second genders._

_“Well, when Thorin came back, he supposedly acted different. Next thing we know, he’s taken on most of the weight of being king. Then he’s broken down the slave markets. Next thing we know, the markets will be breaking down everywhere else, too. It’ll leave us all poor, for Mahal’s sake!” The numbers stuck in Linir’s head through all this: 83 ducats for the owner of a caravan the size of Minel’s. Double the money if Erebor had a slave market._

_“I saw ‘im, on my trip here, and I asked if I could sell. He’s not natural, that one.” Linir tunes back into the conversation._

_“How is he not natural?”_

_“He doesn’t smell right. He doesn’t even act right! His court went up in chaos that day. There were a lot of us caravan owners, and no one was happy about losing half of whatever they were making. You know how alphas do, especially kings and heir apparents. By rights he should have been roaring right along with the rest of us, but he’s just sitting there in ‘is chair like he’s enjoying a quiet smoke by himself instead of in Open Court! Can you imagine that?”_

_No, Linir couldn’t. It sounded like a weak alpha, to Linir’s ears. He’s hustled many a quiet man with the stench of alpha all over them. They’re easy to dominate. They’re easy to do whatever you want with them. An alpha like that shouldn’t be on the Ereborian Throne. Right then, in the dusty, dim interior, an idea pops into Linir’s head. For the first time, he contributes to the conversation._

_“You know, gentlemen, a quiet alpha is easy to control.”_

__

…

Ten years later, and Linir finds out that quiet and weak aren’t the same thing. He’s nose to nose with the man he set out to con ten years ago, and he realizes that he’s vastly underestimated Thorin’s strength. It is why he thought he could sell the halfling before the games and simply convince the Ereborian king to pick a different prize. He was wrong.

This right here is an Alpha Prime if Linir ever saw one. This right here is a dwarf who can command silence and receive it with no more than a whispered command. Linir is hard pressed not to bow.

Linir opens his mouth willing that silky smooth charm to the surface, but it won’t come.

“Let me explain something,” Thorin intones before Linir has the chance to find his missing tongue, “You will find that buyer. You will tell him your deal is annulled, and you will keep your hands off of the halfling. You are on thin ice, Linir. Do not make me angry. It will not go well for you.” Thorin turned on his heel, the robes of his station swishing behind him, and ascends the steps to the throne.

Gracefully, he turns and sits, feet spread, elbows on the arms and fingers crossed in front of his face. He slouches back just slightly. He takes up the space around him. Right now, it feels as though he’s everywhere. Linir has never underestimated anyone in his life.

“You are dismissed.” Linir bows- he dare not forsake protocol- and backs out of the Throne Room before turning and making his way through the wide halls of the heavily populated parts of Erebor before branching off into the narrower hallways until he makes it to his rooms. He turns and shuts the door, locking it in one frantic, shaken motion.

“You don’t look too well,” says a dwarf from the shadows. Linir turns to face the room and the fire. As he sits, a goblet of wine is passed to him, and hands move to his hair, working through the loose hair there.

“We were wrong.” Those fingers just keep moving. They don’t even acknowledge the fact that Linir’s spoken. The wine’s half gone, and Linir’s lax to the point of falling asleep before the voice speaks.

“By how much?” Linir’s eyes raise to the ceiling, taking every inch of the face that blocks his view and storing it. The man’s got dark hair that falls in a massive fountain all over him. His eyes twinkle with mischief and cunning.

“By an ocean.” The man hums and doesn’t stop his ministrations. He’s moved down to Linir’s shoulders, exploring the tight, newly formed knots in the muscle.

“Minel did warn us.” Linir gives a bitter laugh.

“Minel is dead.”

“By your hand.”

“It was your plan that got him killed.” A soft giggle.

“What’s funny?” Another laugh.

“Have you really not figured it out?”

“Just tell me already.”

“The plan was not what got Minel killed. Killing Minel was the _entire plan_.” Linir’s only slightly disturbed by this. He’s more annoyed at the fact that he didn’t figure it out.

“To what end?”

“He needed to die.”

“Why?”

“The same reason why he didn’t like you and why he didn’t want to hear my plans.” A giggle interrupts the speech of the dwarf, who’s moved on from massaging to kissing Linir occasionally.

“And why is that?” Even when Linir knows the answer, he plays the fool, so that his partner in all things criminal and some non-criminal would share his opinions. It is amazing to be able to take a short trip inside the mind of a madman.

“He had no fire,” a kiss lands on Linir’s shoulder, “no drive,” another on the end of Linir’s collarbone, “no vision.” This next kiss is closer to the center. Linir doesn’t recall his tunic being unlaced at the top, but it was at some point. It doesn’t matter. Linir tilts his head back.

“He talked a big game, but that’s all he was: talk. He was weak because of it. He would have folded the minute the heat came on. He was easy, for all his volume. So he had to die, or he would have ruined the whole thing. That’s what people do.”  The dwarf has kissed his way to the hollow of Linir’s throat, up his windpipe, over his beard, and now circumvents his mouth, kissing everywhere but.

“You’re so much more than that, Linir.” One kiss lands on his left eyelid while hands rest on Linir’s thighs. Sudden guilt strikes.

“I got drunk and told him stuff.” The other dwarf had been mad, but apparently not mad enough to kill him.

“Stuff he would have asked you about, had you not told him.” A second kiss to Linir’s right eyelid. “Don’t worry, Linir. We’ll get him. We’ll just have to move a little more… aggressively.” Finally, Linir takes the dwarf’s face in both hands and crashes their mouths together. Their both bleeding by the time they come up for air.

“Now,” the dwarf says as he pulls back, “tell me exactly what happened.” For the first time that evening, Linir laughs.

“What the hell am I going to do with you, Sekmet?” The other alpha pours the two of them another glass of wine.

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out,” Sekmet says, sass evident. Linir, back to his usual self, smirks his little half grin and leans forwards, ready now to tell all. He tries not to think of Minel. After all, if three friends are in a boat, and one starts to rock it, what do you do? Push him overboard. Otherwise, all three of you drown.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Ducat: The most valuable gold coin  
> *Tharni: 1/4 a ducat


	10. The Gong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin's secret circle here's the call for action.

ORI

He’s in the library when his brother finds him. The whispering voice rolls over him from the shadows in the back. Ori doesn’t move, but he’s ready now. The knives beneath his clothing are a testament to that.  
Hours later, he hears the gong.

BIFUR

He’s not sure when this thing came about. He never used to let people lead him. When he sustained that wound at Azanulbizar, people weren’t happy to discover that he was and is an omega. He was not, however, the kind to give a shit.  
When Prince Frerin, Heir Apparent Under the Mountain, left to go to war, Bifur went with him, knowing the kid would need it. An old veteran- an omega veteran, no less- could teach Frerin how to be an alpha. No less was asked of the omega crown prince.  
It’s too bad Bifur was just a bit too… singular. Had he had a partner, Frerin would be alive, and Bifur wouldn’t have gone from being independent to following people around like a “proper” omega. He hated that part.  
He’s not sure when he went back to the way he used to be, but he likes it. He liked it when he opened the door to the house of he and his cousins one day to find a tall dwarf in a dark cloak, asking if he’d like to go on an adventure with him.  
He’d been skeptical when he was informed that this adventure wouldn’t ever leave the mountain. But he’d loved it. Bifur had felt it in his bones the first time he stepped back into a training hall after three years’ worth of absence and he went berserk on his opponent. He came back the day after and the one after that, steadily moving up the ranks of the guards, getting beat before defeating, learning his boundaries, learning where he was limitless.  
All along, there was that man in the background, breaking things down from the top, while Bifur, and later Bofur and Bombur (two betas) kept their ears to the ground. It was no surprise when Bofur was moved into the House of Gears. The place had it’s fingers in every pie. It was in charge of making things run smoothly. The job brought the money in.  
Bifur spent more time at the training halls.  
Later, when Bombur was moved up from chopping boy to head cook (because he was certainly worthy of the title. People just didn’t like the idea of a commoner* holding such rank.) When Bombur told them about the look on his bosses’ faces, Bifur laughed for the first time since the Battle.  
So when the gong rings, the eccentric, very ignored Bifur looked up, and knew that the game was afoot.

OIN

Being head healer is a bitch. It is a gratifying thing, but it’s also a bitch. When his people needed supplies, he had to make sure they got it. When the healing wing was called to report on every injury, illness, and death, Oin is the one with the report. He did the books, he handed the disasters, and, most importantly, he handled the impossible.  
He lost far more than anyone else, because it’s the impossible he’s supposed to fix. It’s the impossible he’s supposed to make better. It’s not always a doable thing. This, and this reason only, is why it was nice to see his (very) distant relative and not tell him how many patients he lost.  
They talked a lot, because, while strikingly cold and distant to people he doesn’t know, Thorin Oakenshield was definitely understanding of what it looks like to hold a dwarf’s life in your hands.  
He knows what it is to be watching that life slip from your fingers, and knowing how to plug the gap. He knew what it was like to know, to do, and to fail. He knew how much it hurt to have that dwarf’s face burned into his eyelids because that dwarf could have been saved but he fucking died because the man holding his life wasn’t good enough.  
Most of all, he knew why it was bad to have to report this death. To have to say “twelve died” and the causes of their deaths instead of their names and what they told you while they were passing or marching under your command. That one is both of them. A team of medics once got taken out by a massive fireball from the orcs a couple battles before the war was over. Oin, as their captain, nearly died in the damn attack as well. He didn’t, though. He had to report their deaths. He put their names in a write up. No one wanted to know the joke they all shared the night before. There were others, but that’s the one that stuck. That’s the one that sent Oin home.  
So it was nice to sit and talk with Thorin. He totally got it. There wasn’t a veil of inexperience. Hell, their wasn’t even a veil of propriety and manners between the two. When the man asked Oin to be part of a group of allies within the mountain, Oin nearly refused. He wasn’t made for this spy shit. He had patched up too many spies. Mostly, he just pulled canvas cloth over their bodies to keep the flies off. You don’t refuse a soldier in need though. That’s what the both of them were, when they talked- soldiers. That’s why it was okay.  
When his brother, Gloin, also fresh back from the army, came to sit with Oin while the man was healing from his burns, it was a little like coming home. When Thorin started to talk to him and spread his reach through the head healer, it was like gaining new family.  
The gong signifies that his family is in trouble.

DWALIN

He had fought Bifur before Bifur was shipped out with Prince Frerin. He had fought many before that, and he was, at the time, second in command of the Royal Army when Thorin came to him and told him of his intentions. They’d been friends before that, before Dwalin shipped out before Frerin died and Thorin joined his old friend on the battlefield. It was an honor and a test of friendship that Thorin came to him.  
He had been the first, and Nori the second. For a long while, it was just the three of them, meeting in secret, carrying out little plans. Nothing big, but building a mountain out of many, many molehills.  
Dwalin likes to think of those days as the Unstable days. The ones where ceiling hadn’t caved in, but it wasn’t supported enough to not be in danger of doing just that. They were good times. Especially when the big dwarf started to grow close to the very thief he’d been chasing across the city for a full decade. Somewhere around a year into that long game of cat and mouse, Nori- then just N- had stopped smiling when Dwalin turned around and saw the tail end of that fucker’s braids. He stopped sassing. He was there, but he wasn’t.  
Dwalin doesn’t know what happened, but he knows that working with Thorin, moving as an underground force, was an excellent thing for the thief, now his Spymaster. They still work close. It’s good thing, too. Dwalin would rather not lose their friendship.  
When Thorin started with their families, it was good that Balin was already Thorin’s head advisor. Dwalin still remembers the arguments the two of them got into over Dwalin even being in the army, over him being of high rank, over him marching out after Thrain.  
It didn’t matter, though, because in the end, it was Balin who got into Dwalin’s boat, not the other way around. Dwalin counted that as a win. Then the gong rings.

KILI

He knows he’s strong enough because he’s an alpha and alphas are naturally strong and if his uncle would please just-  
“No.”  
“But-”  
“No.”  
“Well Fili-”  
“-Is staying here. With you.”  
“Well maybe if we just stayed with you?”  
“No.”  
“Mum?”  
“No.”  
“PLEEEEESE?”  
“Ask me again and you will be writing a hundred sentences.” Kili’s eyes knit together after just a moment.  
“What’s the sentence?” Uncle Thorin gives him a hard look.  
“Let’s see… ‘I, Kili, alpha tween and of the royal family and Heir Apparent Under the Mountain, solemnly swear to select my battles based on the wiseness of fighting them, along with the answer to the question: ‘is this the hill I want to die on?’ because it will do no good to be foolish and wind up deceased. The first reason is because everyone would miss me and grieve for a thousand years and never, ever grow their beards out because the grief is so great, the second reason is because Mum would assassinate Uncle in cold blood and colder revenge, and the third reason is because if I was to be so foolhardy as to sneak out and follow Uncle Thorin, my Mum would resurrect both Uncle and I, and kill us both for the second time.’ That, young man, is your sentence.”  
Kili’s shoulders hunch, and he glances towards Fili, who was listening intently. He always did that. Then again, he always came up with the best games and the best ways to steal sweets, too (that is, if Kili didn’t rush it. Fili’s always complaining about Kili rushing it.). Pouting, Kili makes his way over to Fili and curls up in his brother’s lap.  
Fili, for his part, simply plucks up the toy soldier Uncle had given him a while back and begins to once again imagine a great war where if you died, you turned into sugar tufts*, and got eaten, so that no soldier got hungry, because that would be very bad indeed.  
Neither boy noticed Dis enter the room to stand next to Thorin at his desk and look over his shoulder at his paper. They didn’t notice that the paper on the desk was a drawing of a strange creature with a button nose who looked as if he had been crying. They didn’t notice the way Dis patted her brother’s shoulder sympathetically. They definitely don’t notice the way Thorin was holding himself, as though trying to contain his battlefield rage.  
They were asleep by the time the gong is rung.

THORIN

He’s cleared all of tomorrow to get important things done. The competition is in three days. Bilbo is still sold, and he’s yet to see Linir (the bastard claimed sickness through both the dinner and the lunch Thorin suggested) after he managed to cow him.  
As each of Thorin’s people move about in their own spheres, there is naught he can do but wait. Then, as he goes to his bedroom, and the fun begins.

BILBO

The Sneaky One does not come tonight. Not until after the hobbit is fast asleep. Only then, while the hobbit is oblivious, does the canvas cloth covering shift ever so slightly, so that the Sneaky One can check in and make sure the halfling’s alright. It's his first job of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Some dwarves are pricks. And bastards.  
> *Fili is thinking of cotton candy when he says sugar tufts  
> Totally waited forever (it was just a day but it felt like longer) to post this! Also, I started a new work today, when I really shouldn't start knew works (but I wasn't supposed to start this one either, so you know how that goes...)  
> Let me know what you think!  
> -White Rabbit's Clock


	11. The Company

NORI

He wasn’t happy when he found out what Ori was up to, but he was very proud that the youngest Ri had managed to keep it from him for almost a full year (lovely, really. Ori is shaping up into a true spy). What he was happy about is the fact that Ori is apparently not afraid to stick anyone that would try to force or court (aggressively) their way into Ori’s pants. All this boils down to one thing: he would rather have his brother dangerous and at large than a “proper” omega and vulnerable.

This is why he does not begrudge Ori his spot at the table. This is why he does not flinch (though he wants to) when Ori moves forwards to examine the three bodies (two dead, one unconscious) Thorin dragged into the room.

Dori, next to Nori, gives the Hum of Doom.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” Ori looks up.

“Why?” He says. He’s talking to Thorin, but he’s looking to Nori and Dori. You can learn a lot by watching your brothers. For instance, Dori’s chin has lifted slightly, the way it does when unwanted suitors walk into the tea shop and start in on their latest reason why Dori (and sometimes, Ori) should be their omega, and not just an omega.

“Nori told you what’s gone on?”

“Yes. Pity, really, a dwarf like Linir could have been great.”

“Could being the operative word, here.” Dori says quietly.

“What have you got?” Ori looks down and keeps going through their pockets.

“So, these two are from Linir’s caravan. According to a couple of my acquaintances, they spend a great deal of time going after omegas, but haven’t had even the smallest amount of luck yet. Good job on that, Dwalin.” The warrior nods. He definitely takes orders like the ones Thorin’s been giving seriously.

“This third one, here,” Ori points to the second dead carcass.

“This one has nothing to identify him as. Lucky for you all, he’s an avid reader.”

“A bookworm tried to kill Thorin?” The thread of doubt in Bofur’s voice is not echoed in the remaining Ri brothers.

“Not quite. I’m an avid reader, he was spying. Dori, did he come into your shop?”

“With a courting offer.” Dwalin’s eyes narrow.

“He’s been seen around the practice yards.”

“He was flirting with one of mine.” Bombur supplies. The beta doesn’t look very happy.

“And the others?”

“He has a temporary job picking up supplies in the House of Gears,” Nori says, pointing to the unconscious one. Then his finger moves to the second body, “and he hangs around the medical hall.” Thorin’s eyes are calculating as Ori processes it all.

“It’s safe to say that there’s a cabal within the mountain that includes at least these three and- oh.”

“Oh, what?” Thorin says.

“Look what I have.” Ori flips open the tunic after unlacing the neck and , after removing a knife, cuts carefully along a seam no one can see. From the newly opened hole comes a small disc the size of a silver penny*. On it is an eight pointed star.

“A Starhand emblem.”

“The same one is on Bilbo’s collar.” Thorin takes the tag.

“What do we know about the Starhands?” Nori looks up. It is the Ri brothers who keep track of information, so the question falls to them.

“We know their polite, model citizens, both at home and away.” Nori says. Dori leans forwards in his seat. “They’re fond of customized stuff. All of them strike up conversations except for two. This one,” here, Dori gestures to the body, “and another that never came for tea.” No one asks how any of the three Ri brothers know what they know. They are the informants. They had the information. None of them in their right mind would play show and tell with their sources.

“Anything else about this mysterious Starhand?”

“No. It looks like he’s doing his spying through that one, and Linir is the prime suspect for the other two.” Nori concludes. Dwalin rubs his tattooed head with his rough hand.

“Then if these three are working together, then that would mean that Linir is not operating alone.”

“We knew that was a possibility,” Balin muses, “the question is, are they partners in crime or a puppet and his master?” It’s Thorin’s turn, an everyone turns to him for the answers. Thorin, in turn, is staring at the bodies as Oin moves in to do his examination and Ori stands but remains close by, in case he sees something else.

“Both. There are two different patterns to the things Linir does. One of them is quiet, but it’s deadlier. The other is brazen. I’d say he’s being guided at least part of the time. We need to find his partner.” Nori grins as everyone turns to him.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

BILBO

While he was asleep, they moved him. He’s colder now, and he pulls his knees to his chest and keeps himself warm by shivering. There’s voices around him. They’re muffled, but harsh. The smell of alpha swamps him, and he tries hard not to move. That will only draw their eye. In this vulnerable state, that is the worst idea.

The wheels of his wagon are well taken care of, and it makes not a sound as it trundles along an echoey place. The canvas shifts and sways with the movement. Bilbo tries to figure out where they are (he has, after all, made use of those interesting rips in the canvas cover of his wagon) but it’s useless. He’s never seen this place before. It’s stony and echoey and abandoned.

The only thing Bilbo is certain of is that they are not going out the way they came in.

NORI

The secret passage ways of Erebor are not secret for nothing. Most have been forgotten by time, and Nori’s taken care to destroy the blueprints of the originals. Most of them had died of dust and disuse by the time the Spymaster found them.

These passages take him everywhere and nearly all of them were once in use for some other reason. For instance, the ones that lead to the granaries were once used to haul stone out of the deep storage tanks. The ones that lead to the dining halls were once used by the elite pages of old- trusted couriers from the time when Erebor was tiny and the constant battle to survive required fast, safely delivered messages. Several dozen passages were carved out by Erebor’s many Spymasters and their many minions. Nori can always tell when he comes across these.

He’s in one now as he moves along into a residential part of Erebor that houses diplomats intending to stay for months at a time (they were the first. Coming and going was very dangerous when these chambers were made). He inches along until he finds that thin spot he adores so much. He presses his ear against it, and hears nothing. Looks like Linir’s lover is sleep or absent (he mutters to himself if he’s awake). With all the caution in the world, Nori whispers the secret word and the door (the fucking tiny door) opens. Nori surfaces behind the desk (just like in Thorin’s study. How ironic) and slowly, knives in hands and up sleeves, clears each and every room.

He returns to the bedroom, and realizes that he missed just one thing: the unmade bed is still warm when he touches the sheets. Nori turns around and nearly runs into a dwarf with dark hair. He dodges (and avoids a knife wound. Yay!) and strikes back. When his feet are knocked out from under him, he hits his head hard on something that wasn’t there before.

Lights out.

BILBO

They toss him into the cage with Bilbo, who waits until the canvas covering is drawn again to turn to the Sneaky One and turn him over so that he was not crushing his face into the dirty wood. Hands shaking from the pain in his back, Bilbo carefully lays small hands against the dwarf’s face and shakes it.

He can see a deep bruise over the dwarf’s temple, despite the darkness of the tunnels. Around them, Bilbo can smell the stony wet of dripping tunnel water turn into open air. The wagon wheels stop clicking, and a brushing sound replaces it. Bilbo knows, then, that they are outside Erebor. With that dies his only hope.

The  dwarf- the Sneaky One, opens his eyes and, in a way that says he wasn’t really unconscious, gri

“Told ya we wouldn’t leave you, kid.” Bilbo helps him to sit up. The sneaky one passes him something sweet, and Bilbo eats it quickly. It’s been an age or three since he had candy. While he is enjoying the cherry taste of heaven, The Sneaky One goes to work on the manacles at Bilbo’s feet. With a quiet clink, the first mannacle falls open in The Sneaky One’s experienced hand. He looks at Bilbo with a grin.

“Up for a game, now?”

Bilbo, for the first time in two years, has no problems with convincing his once trademark smirk to rise. He finally has a reason to use it.

 

****NORI

 

He'll admit that getting captured may not have been the best way to ascertain that Linir is, indeed, working with a Starhand, but he won't lose track of Thorin's precious halfling this way. Besides, Thorin's going to need help when he finally gets a chance to be around the halfling. What's a little more trust on top of what he's been building these past days?

Nori, when he sees that sly, barely-there smirk, realizes that maybe the halfling isn't as broken as he's supposed to be. Those dark circles and prominent- too prominent- cheekbones just scream of all the fear and hunger the halfling's suffered. It's the fact that he still smiles that convinces Nori that if there is a way to save him, then it will happen.

The Spymaster sits back. He'll be chased across the continent, if that's what it takes. He can escape at anytime, if it comes to that. As always, he's just not that worried. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Nori's capture was a spur of the moment thing.


	12. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin figures it out, and Nori gets closer to Bilbo (literally...).

NORI

Okay, so this is a dumb idea. No, it is a _fucking stupid_ idea. Even for an alpha to do this, it’s suicidal (at best…). This, of course, is not what Nori lets show as he sits on the floor of the cage, hobbit hiding in the pile of putrid straw in the back, grinning like he just enacted the best (bona fide retarded) plan on the planet. He reminds himself that he can do this- that Dori did this during the war- and all he had to do was play chicken.

_You remember what happened to Dori, don’t you?_

Yes, yes Nori does. He remembers how when Dori came home after his stint in the war (he shipped out with Thrain and came back after the final battle) he would just sit there, staring at one of the bare walls of their run-down, three-and-a-half room home. Sometimes, Nori thought he was remembering. Sometimes, Nori thought he was just drifting. At the time, it mattered, but not as much as making sure the Ri brothers could eat at least once a day.

He didn’t find out until months later that Dori had been used as bait for surprise attacks. There was an entire unit of them. Not many came back. It’s another reason why Nori would follow Thorin across the world and back- as soon as his grandfather forgot, that particular unit of walking bait ceased to forget.

Nori is apparently following in Dori’s footsteps; using himself as bait- casting himself as a mediocre snoop and getting captured (just as Dori had done) to get close to the enemy. Dori, with his manners and his politic face, is going to have his ass when he realizes just where his brother is. While this may have been a spur-of-the-moment thing, Nori know that this is what's needed. Someone has to get close and stay close to the hobbit. Someone has to be in the middle of the enemy- break it down from the inside. Someone has to be here when things go wrong.

It may not be the brightest idea, but it’s the working idea. After all, The Company has no idea what happened to the caravan. It’s not like he’s defenseless. Nori holds in a chuckle. He’s already building his defense for when Dori gets through the “My Brother Got Himself Enslaved and It’s Fucking Scary” portion of his reaction and on to the “I’m Going To Kill Him For It” part.

The wagons, which have been still for less than half an hour, jerk to life. The halfling’s wagon, sturdy to hold him captive, lunged hard, hammering and thundering along with the rest of the wagons. Nori, on sensing the halfling’s distress, turns and holds out both hands.

The halfling just sits there, watching him with wary eyes. It’s when he realizes that, while enslaved and chained and hungry and malnourished, this creature isn’t going to give up easily. He removes one of his remaining knives (they searched him, but they didn’t search him well) and sets it down closer to Bilbo than it is to Nori. Two seconds, and the knife disappears.

Good. The halfling’s quick. He’ll need that.

THORIN

“That FUCKING idiot!” Thorin reminds himself that just because someone is out of their goddamn mind does not mean he needs to butt in. In fact, he should definitely stay away, just now. Dori, after all, doesn’t cuss. If he does, someone’s about to get their ass handed to them. That someone just happens to be Nori.

“Are you sure he’s done it on purpose?”

“Of course he has! He’s fucking addicted to the thrill of it all!” Thorin, himself, had been unable to figure out why an omega would like thieving and spying and being all manner of sneaky so much. This, of course, makes sense.

“Then if he’s done it on purpose, he’ll be okay.”

“No he won’t! He’s… he’s…” But Dori can’t admit that he thinks his brother’s omega status might just be his undoing, today. He just can’t. Not when the both of them have come so far, despite the “proper” omega expectations.

Now Nori is gone, and Dori is pissed, Ori is worried, and Thorin is trying to decide the best way to not get hit. In the face. With a chair. When Nori had failed to report back, Dwalin and Bifur and Dori had followed Nori’s scent and stormed the room, but it was gone.

No, not just gone. When someone leaves the room and enough time has passed that their scent begins to fade- that’s gone. Nori _disappeared_. There's no scent trail to follow. This, of course, further solidifies the fact that Linir was indeed the one behind the little (inadequate) attempt on Thorin’s life if he had the resources to make a Spymaster disappear lurking in his chambers.

But why try to kill Thorin now? Why not earlier, when Thorin was still playing at inferiority? When he could have been lured away? And why send assassins to an Alpha Prime? Why not poison his wine? Why not stab or shoot him in a closed space? Why not push him down a mineshaft? So many ways to make sure he stayed dead, and so many ways to make sure he doesn’t get away, yet they didn’t. Why? What’s the point of stringing him on, only to turn around and destroy all that work?

“There’s a bigger agenda here.” Thorin says softly to himself.

“Bigger than trying to kill you?” Dwalin, next to Thorin, says. Dori’s attention is abruptly trained on Thorin. Along with everyone else in the room, the eleven of them are wearing skirmish armor. It’s different from battle armor- lighter and easier to maneuver. It’s made for traveling as much as it’s made for fighting in.

“Yes.”

“Then,” Dwalin rumbles, “what do they want?” Suddenly, Thorin remembers how pompous and strutting Linir could be. How sometimes he made allusions about how Court and paperwork of any kind are not made for alphas. They’re made for omegas. It was insulting. A lifetime of learning and willpower had made Thorin an excellent politician, but Linir had said that it was an omega’s work. He had said it with a sneer.

There were many things like that. When the rumors started coming in about how the Ereborian king is unworthy of the crown… Thorin’s thoughts stutter to a halt. It was never about killing him or outmaneuvering him or whatever it was that Thorin was supposed to think. It was about usurping he and his in the most disruptive way possible- to do so would be to end the line of Durin. The repercussions of that would be restoring the slave markets. A genius plan, really- trying to wipe out a line with a weak Alpha Prime.

After all, if the royal family fell, the economy would go to hell. Too much of it found its way to Thorin’s practiced hands for anything else. If he and his were to meet an unfortunate end, Erebor’s aristocratic league would hash it out. He’d learned about this before.

Without a clear line of succession, a great deal of fighting would erupt in order to determine a successor. Dwarves are not innocent, Thorin knows. If they so desired the throne, they would argue and kill each other. The last one of these cockfights lasted a few decades, when the late king Milin died before his three-year-old son Pilin was of age. With no one to rule in his place or defend his right to the throne, a great deal of fighting took place, and often times, those who weren’t killed in the act of succession were killed via being charged with treason.  

That was just to determine who’d be Regent Under the Mountain- a temporary thing at best, since eventually Pilin did grow up and selected his Regent before he wound up with a healthy child who succeeded him. By the time that happened, the Heir Apparent under the mountain had a total of ten Regents. All but the last had been assassinated. No, a riled Court did bad things to an economy and society.

Thorin watched his people, trying to decide if he is indeed right. There’s very little else that encompasses all that’s happened. He hopes he’s not wrong, while at the same time wishing that he is dead wrong, and that the real reason is less sinister.

“They’re trying to destabilize the economy.” Everyone looked at him.

“Why?”

“Because a limited economy means that they’ll buy and sell whatever they can.”

“Including slaves.” Dwalin says. Thorin, sure of himself now, launches into an explanation.

“The goal is to usurp the entire Durin line. If they do that, the remaining aristocratic clans will clash over who should rule. If the Court is focused on the throne, the people will be ignored. They’ll take a powerful hit to their pockets. They’ll have too many mouths to feed. Too many people will need protection. They’ll have to find a way to get gold and feed their people at the same time, so even if a market isn’t official for another decade, the extra omegas will indeed be sold while the nobles argue and kill each other.” Thorin pauses, explanation finished. They he continues.

“Actually, if there was an attempt to assassinate me tonight, they should already be gone…” Thorin froze, that lept into motion.

“Get to the stables!”  His omega and Spymaster were likely being carted away just now. He had missed it. He could have stopped it (he could have stopped his grandfather) and he should have stopped it but he didn’t and now the halfling and Nori are gone. FUCK!

Something cold settles in Thorin’s veins as the group make their way to the stables. He will not let this end in any other way than in Bilbo’s and Nori’s favor. This is the last time he fails the halfling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not happy with this chapter. I've been worrying it on and off all week. Tell me what you think.  
> In this A/B/O verse, dwarven omegas number equal or greater than alphas, depending on the place and time. This is why it's okay for Dori and Bifur and Frerin to go to war in the first place.


	13. Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Company ride after Linir's caravan.

THORIN

His pony’s huge. It’s stocky, wide across the back and hooves; pound upon pound of savage muscle. It’s name is Griffin, and rightfully so. Thorin, conscious of his time table, runs down the length of the stables, and has brought out his pony like only he can before the sole groom even gets to the stall of one of the crankiest horses in existence.

“Dori! Dwalin! Bifur! With me!” He doesn’t need to order any more. Of the eleven of them, these four can ride bareback, and therefore won’t need to stop for the tack. Within minutes, the group of them (Team 1, as it was explained when they came up with this plan) is riding out after the thundering caravan containing both murderers and innocents alike.

BILBO

The Sneaky One is strange, no doubt about it. But, Bilbo supposes, better in here, and on Bilbo’s side, than out there, and against him. That would be a tragic thing indeed. Tragic. He laughs at himself. What’s not tragic?

Bilbo shoves those those thoughts back to where they came from and focuses on not dry-heaving. He hates it when the wagons go at the pace they are now. He always thinks he’s going to get shaken apart or left to deal with whatever they’re running from.

So, with the Sneaky One watching him, Bilbo crouches as far back as he can in the corner, ignoring the smell of old shit, sweat, and vomit in the straw to hold on tightly to the bars. Suddenly, Bilbo’s fears come true, because the wagon, which has stayed upright from Bilbo’s first moment in it to this one, meets a sudden force and flips back over front.

The Sneaky One, who was not, in fact, holding on (he seemed to enjoy the pace…) free floats for a moment before Bilbo, who has hold of the bars, reaches out and grabs him. This dwarf brought him food. This dwarf promised him freedom. When that promise was inevitably broken (he will never be free of Linir or his friends) he found himself sitting in the same damn wagon. Maybe all others are cruel (in fact, Bilbo is sure of it) but this creature, who laughed at their pace, is not to be counted among them. So Bilbo grabs him, before that neck is snapped by the wagon impacting.

A moment later, roof meets ground, and Bilbo’s world shakes itself apart at the seams.

NORI

He didn’t expect the hobbit to touch him, he really didn’t expect to be saved by him, but here he is, decidedly not-dead. The metal of the roof is made of cheap steel, and the neglect (the bed may have been looked after, but not the roof) causes the roof to cave, effectively warping the metal bars of the door, and creating an avenue of escape.

With a grin, Nori turns to Bilbo. Things just got interesting. The first scream goes up, and the blood drains from Nori’s face. Bilbo flinches violently backwards in his once nice trousers. This is not the interesting thing Nori thought it was.

The cover, which had been tied to the corners of the cage, has remained in tact. Nori, knowing that this is the time to run, turns his gaze to the warped bars. Maybe that one… Before he can take a step forwards, Bilbo slashes a long rip in the canvas in front of the bent bars. He’s peeking through. Quite suddenly, he’s gone, Nori after him. The two omegas spill into the night, hoping that whatever flipped their wagon would not come back for a meal.

DORI

No. NO! He’s off his horse and amidst the wreckage of caravans before he knows it, the blood and gore of the bodies around him turning the top layer of snow into a disgusting mud. Fire still spits and crackles, but it will go out soon, because all the wagons are painted to protect from it.

At the edge of the massacre, there is a wagon that flipped when the attached horses were relieved of their legs. The bars, some of which are wrent and others bent, are visible through a dark canvas cloth covering. It’s here that Dori runs, looking and looking and- there. A clean cut has been made over an especially wide hole on the side that faces away from the wreck.

Dori looks beyond. Everywhere but here, there is an expanse of disturbed snow. Two sets of footprints- one bare, one booted- only get a few yards before it disappears into the massive churnings of warg paws and orcan foot soldiers. In the distance there- a forest of darkness and rocks.

Dori hears a growl behind him (he stands where the orc tracks begin) and turns to see a wounded orc. Blood leaks from its shoulder, and is clearly here to finish off any newcomers survivors. Dori, though, is not afraid in fact he feels-

- _energized. The pine trees and evergreens that grow on the slopes above Khazad Dum are infested with orcs and their wargs. It’s here that the Blue Branch has chosen to take its battle. If they take the surface, than no supplies will reach the orcs below, effectively starving them into killing each other_

 _So it’s here that Dori makes his own stand. An omega alone in the wilderness is easy pickings- even a big omega like himself. As the first one shows its ugly face he_ -

-looks it in the eyes and lets out a high pitched whimper. He’s done this before. It’s how he got them to come before. He-

- _is, after all, bait, and it’s his job to get them to come forwards. An omega, after all, is very tempting to anyone. A scared omega (he is, somewhere inside, scared. Even so, he learned from early on that you don’t show fear. It’s like slipping on a second skin. A tight, binding, restrictive second skin.) is like the opium some of Dori’s officers took at the training camps. (Safest hellhole on earth. May as well make the best of it.)_

 _So this orc peaks its head around the trees and_ -

-lets out its own snarl; a sure sign of dominance that a normal omega would bow to. Dori’s-

- _an army omega. He’s part of the Blue Branch. They may not treat him like it,  but does it matter. He’s serving his kingdom. He would rather be looking after Nori and Ori, but duty calls, so he’s here. He crouches low, getting ready for the orc to leap. It’s going to try to wreak havoc on Dori and he’ll kill it he’ll kill it_ -

-dead because this bastard hurt Nori. No one hurts Nori. The orc gets closer, and Dori’s hand goes

- _to his waist and detaches the big metal warhammer and_ -

-brings it up in front of him, ready to fight. The orc leaps and-

- _Dori intentionally doesn’t dodge enough. He lets out a whine of pain like a good omega does and starts to run, feigning inexperience, letting his fear scent spread all over the place, attracting others. He finds a series of rocky crags and makes his stand there, climbing higher as thirty, forty, fifty orcs try to get him, swiping their_ -

-long clawed hand at Dori, which is easily sidestepped Dori comes back up with an uppercut from his massive-

- _warhammer. The current orc’s hand is smashed on the inside. As the other dwarves flood the rocks and do what they’re trained to do, Dori keeps himself up and primed, knowing that just because the orcs are occupied doesn’t make him safe. If anything it makes him even more vulnerable because no one cares about the bait._

_The orc directly in front of him takes a leap and he-_

Swings the hammer down once more and smashes its head in. Black blood leaks all over the snow. Dori inhales and exhales, watching Thorin, Dwalin, and Bifur ride up behind the overturned wagon. Dori’s horse trailing behind Thorin. The other group, in the distance, are thundering down on them.

Dori quickly swings up onto his sable horse and falls in behind Thorin as they head out across the snow.

NORI

The halfling is hurt. He’s limping something awful, his toes have begun to turn blue, and his back is bothering him. Nori does his best to keep going. Helping the halfling on, however is nothing easy.

Nori tips his head up to stare at the frozen mound of rocks. Somewhere in there is a cave deep enough to keep Nori and Bilbo safe.

Howls- closer than they were before- split the night. Without another thought, Nori boosts Bilbo up over the first rock.

He hopes to god the halfling doesn’t die out here. His king would be rather distraught. That, and Nori's started to like him with his fire and reflexes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! There's that! As a warning, I've been grounded, which is why I've only managed to update on weekends for the last two updates. I've no idea how long this will last, so if you could bear with me, my readers, then it may very well be over soon.   
> -Yours, White Rabbit's clock  
> P.S. I'm an artist, and I'll be coming out another work of art for this fic soon, so there's that.


	14. The Beginning of the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo remembers, and things are drawing towards their peak.

BILBO

The Sneaky One continues to help Bilbo when it would be better to leave him. There’s a film of sweat on Bilbo’s body and a fever haze in his mind. The halfling wonders why the Sneaky One’s still here. What does he want? Why doesn’t he act normally? It’s hard to focus. If it wasn’t Bilbo would know the answer. He’s sure he would know.

As it is, they have to climb these rocks, when it would be easier to go around. The Sneaky One pushes Bilbo up first. He just barely joins the hobbit before the far off howls split the night once more, now far closer. Bilbo looks back and imagines he can see them those great big animals that tore flesh from bone and made mincemeat of his dwarven abusers.

Above all he can see the Pale One, sitting astride his pale mount. His mouth had been wide open, rotted, stumpy teeth roaring out orders to his people. Bilbo had only caught a glance of him as he and the Sneaky One had stolen away, but it had been enough. The wind, which had blown towards them (it’s a good job, too, because in any other direction, they’d have been caught and killed before they had time to escape) had brought to the two of them the powerful scent of an Alpha Prime.

They have been fortunate, but their luck has all but run out. Bilbo doesn’t let himself think anymore (thinking is dangerous. You lose your mind like that…) but instead tries to clamber over the next rock himself. His back’s not to bad, now. It’s been rather frozen, so the numbness in his fingers has graced him in a merciful way elsewhere. His limp, however, is not too easy on him. It pulls and screams when Bilbo moves. It acts a bitch when he needs it quiet.

He makes the boulder and turns back to the Sneaky one. Just as he clears the rounded edge of stone, Bilbo takes a step back, and slips. He slipped once before, and not too long ago. Somehow, though, that time seems like forever.

…

_They are all in the same cage, the same boat, the same fucking death trap. Bilbo, however, has a plan. They, his fellow hobbits (one of which is a child), watch in fear as Bilbo snarls and curses at the guards, attracting their attention. He earns a few hits, but he gets what he needs as they poke their sheathed swords through the bars._

_He feigns unconsciousness, hiding what he got._

_Late in the evening, long after the sun has drawn to a close, and two days outside of Hobbiton, Bilbo opens his eyes and meets that of every other captive. Silently, he unfolds, and hands over little Samwise to Hamfast. He leaves the straw where he had been “sleeping” and makes his way to the iron ring in the floor of the wagon. The iron links of four hobbits are attached here._

_There is Ortho, who often came to Bilbo in the evening and sat with him. It’s not healthy to be alone, he had said, Not with Lobelia running about, trying to use your solitude against you. He hadn’t said death, then. He hadn’t said it when Bilbo had screamed at him to go away and told Ortho that he wouldn’t understand. Then Bilbo had dissolved into long damned tears. Ortho had sat with him all night, and the master of Bag End had woken up on the couch in the livingroom, Ortho drinking his morning tea in the armchair. Bilbo never did lose control, and Ortho kept coming back._

_Then there is Hamfast. At a couple of decades older than Bilbo, Master Gamgee had never really been Bilbo’s friend. But then he took over from his father as Bag End’s gardener since he was old enough to hold a spade. He, too, had refused to let Bilbo drown. Even when the first babe had popped out of Bell’s womb and promptly into her husband’s arms so that Bell could_ “get some flipping shuteye. I haven’t slept a wink since Sam started to show, so you can just tottle on off to Bag End and take him with you!” _It happened frequently, and that little child had often made as much difference as Ortho had._

_Privately, these three are Bilbo’s family. All of them were at or near Bag End, doing what family does. All of them would be safe at home if it wasn’t for Bilbo. So the hobbit will set them free._

_These dwarves have never caught hobbits before. If they had prior experience, they would know that the number one rule to keeping hobbits captured is this: always check their pockets. The second rule is: never go near them with your pockets._

_Bilbo gracefully sits and, after removing the very set of lockpicks he had practiced with as a tween (Belladonna was not the biggest scandal in the Shire’s history for no reason, after all) and had been teaching Ortho to use, quietly begins to jiggle Ortho’s shackles loose. He almost does the one attached to the ring, but instead opts for the one on Ortho’s ankle. It works and, in less than half an hour, all four of them are loose._

_Bilbo sidles over to the door. The lock is simpler, and better kept, then the ones inside the cage. In short order, they have swung the door open, and made off into the forest of caravans. If they can make it to the outside, they can get back to the Shire._

_Bilbo goes ahead, while the other three hide under one of the many baggage wagons. They don’t dare go near the other slaves. Speaking of which… Bilbo, while waiting for a guard to pass, notices that, even though the human slaves are more likely to break free than the hobbits, they don’t have ankle chains._

_Some of the omegas here don’t smell like scared omegas. Some of them smell angry. As soon as the guard passes, Bilbo creeps across the grassy median and gets to work on the door. He wakes the first omega, puts a finger to his lips, and points at the open door. It’s the work of a moment for the rest to be awake._

_Then, the door is opened, and a wagon full of bone thin human omegas are creeping away. It goes on like that the entire night, with Bilbo slowly but surely freeing the rest of the slaves (he couldn’t leave them anyways. Belladonna would have had his ass…) and, wagon by wagon, moving his three charges closer and closer to the outside._

_They are just a few wagons from freedom when the alarm goes up. To hell with it all. Bilbo yanks Ortho up by the hand and, with Hamfast and Samwise at his back, leads them out into the dark forest. He hasn’t time to do anything else. Bilbo learned a long time ago that there’s never enough time._

_It’s as they’re running, dwarves on ponies galloping down at them, that Bilbo trips. He’s back up again, and pushing all three of his behind a thorny bramble bush, but it’s too late for him. Someone has to distract the riders. Bilbo turns. He takes a deep breath, then he slips the little knife he often used to carve the skin off apples into his hand._

_Bilbo drops into a crouch. Belladonna taught him many useful and scandalous things during her time on this earth. One of them was never leave those who can’t help themselves behind. The second is never make someone your family if you aren’t prepared to die for them._

__

…

Bilbo thinks that this little reminder- this reminder that would carry him through the fight and the punishment after and all the way to Erebor, then to this cropping of rocks that may or may not be their salvation- is what stopped him from turning tail then.

Now, two years later, Bilbo is, once again, on the edge of death. He takes it with an internal smile. Belladonna never gave a fuck about the odds. Neither would he.

THORIN

They bear down on the pack of orcs, ready to do death. Group two has caught up with them, so they are ten strong. They come to a stop at the lone body of an orc, struck down at the knees, then stabbed in the back of the neck.

The style is not one Thorin recognizes. He flicks the reins and, with the abandon of the hunt upon he and his, the Alpha Prime shoots away. An hour later, they see a short outcropping of rocks and the distance, and the distinctive form of orcs swarm over it. Behind that rises the Mirkwood forest. Thorin leans even farther forward, pulls his legs up even higher, and flicks his reins.

They ride at a dead run, weapons drawn, shields ready. The time for politics is over. Now, it is time to kill.

NORI

The kid slipped on the lip of a hole. It’s nothing but a bit of space between two boulders where the earth wore away, but it is good enough- deep enough, to protect him and the halfling. So, without further ado, Nori follows the hobbit down, down underground. When they are far enough back, the dwarf lays on his side, back pressed into the earthen wall, and opens his coat and riding armor.

The halfling, eyes firmly glued on nori’s face, freezes in fear. It only takes a few westron sentences and gestures before the kid allows himself to be turned and dragged, so that Nori’s furnace like body is mostly protecting Bilbo from frostbite and gangrene. The coat he always wears- thin but insulated- slips down over both of them. Nori lets his eyes slip shut.

“Sleep now, kid. We have no idea when help’s arriving.” Bilbo does his best to relax as much as possible. Nori can still feel the tightness in the kid’s muscles. He’s no stranger to this, though. He lets his own body release the tension.

Sometimes, the best way to get anyone to relax is simply by not being uptight yourself. Sure enough, the halfling and Nori are soon in a state of half sleep. They are woken again when the orcs begin to swarm the boulders, reaching their arms into holes, trying to find the ghostly killers of their comrade.

Of all the times to be late, Dwalin. Nori can’t help but think ironically and a little hysterically. This is taking far too long. Maybe they could go to Mirkwood. But, no, they’d simply be caught before then. So it’s up to the Company to come and get them.

Nori closes his eyes. He’s so screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still grounded but very at large, my readers.


	15. Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwarves meet the orcs in battle, and Bilbo meets the rest of the Company for the first time.

THORIN

Every now and then, Thorin has to wonder whether he’s really fit to be Prime. He has to stop and look at his life and take into account the fact that his greatest accomplishments were recognized with a lot of noise but achieved in dead silence, the way an omega would do it. He has to wonder if he is, after all, what his enemies believe him to be. This is not one of those times.

Thorin explodes across the rocks, leaving his mount- the mount he trained for this- behind him to move faster. Dwarves are short, no doubt about it. Even a tall one like Thorin easily fits under the thighs of the enemy. Said thighs are very vulnerable. So it goes that orcs begin to fall before they think to look down. It’s a good advantage, on this cold, snowy night.

The Company, hot on his heels, fall forwards into two formations; the first, with Thorin at the head, is one-two-one-one, or Sword, and the second, with Dori and Bifur at the head, is arranged in two-three, or Axe. They form a single, long stroke of death as they cover the rocks and swarm with all the force of a pack three times their number.

It’s a deadly array of dwarven warfare and orcan resistance. Suddenly though, the Axe formation must break apart, because there is some creature in the middle of them. Before he even turns, Thorin knows the ashen scent in his nostrils is not his imagination. Among his men is a beast much fabled of but scarcely seen. Rumor has it that he was a young foot soldier during the war for Khazad Dum.

Thorin, with a signal of his hand, breaks from Sword and leaps to the left. In front of him is a great, creature. He’s so pale that the moon, shining on the snow, would blind Thorin to him, if not for the dark, churned, and bloody rock at their feet. He’s got scars marring his face and body, some of which are battle earned, and others through torture. Tiny blue eyes floating in red whites are set in a face with a small forehead, misshapen pointed ears, and a massive maw filled with pointed rotting teeth.

He’s hardly clothed; only a shoulder guard and a ripped and dirtied loincloth do the neglected duty. In his right hand is a long mace. The rounded part is embedded with rusty ax-like blades, of which there are six or seven, and they are already covered in someone’s blood (Dori’s, if Thorin’s not mistaken). The entire thing is made of metal.

Thorin feels the stillness around them- something his men take advantage of. His eyes meet that of Azog, the long sought, deadly orcan Prime. This- this orc before him- killed his brother and his father. He cost Bifur, for a time, his mind and his freedom. This is the man who put grief in his heart. Thorin can feel, very acutely, the beard he keeps shorn; a requiem to the dead and the slane.

He draws his sword. Only one of them will go home today. Thorin moves in fast, giving Azog no extra time to get ready. Sword clashes on club in a spray of orange sparks; pixy dust in a monochrome backdrop. Thorin holds for just a second. It’s long enough to feel the strength of Azog the Defiler. He breaks and backs off, thinking quickly. It’s obvious to him that- Azog charges forwards with an underhanded sweep, which Thorin blocks. It moves him a full foot.

It’s obvious that Thoring won’t win, even if he’s the only one who knows it. He runs a kingdom. He does far more with a pen than he ever will with a sword. This Prime across from him, though, has done nothing but fight with that club. In shear experience alone, Thorin will fall. They circle each other, and Thorin watches Azog, and notices something peculiar. He’s very attached to that weapon. It’s almost as though he’ll flounder without it.

Gotcha.

On Azog’s next blow, Thorin is intentionally thrown backwards, off the rocks. He does a controlled fall, so that he hits the snow with his broad shoulders and used his momentum to flip himself upright. They are now on the side opposite of Erebor, closer to Mirkwood. There’s the remains of oak trees all around Thorin, and one piece does nicely as a shield. Thorin comes up with it in hand, and faces Azog once more.

Azog runs forwards, not even stopping to assess the measly piece of oak in Thorin’s left hand, nor the fact that the king has shifted his grip. His sword, which was previously held in front of him with two hands, is now held behind him, exposing his entire right side. The only thing between certain death and dismemberment is the oaken shield.

In any other situation, Thorin would not have even considered it. He learned a long time ago, though, that force is nothing with no direction, and there is more than one way to skin a cat. Azog charges, and Thorin waits until the last possible moment to dodge, so that he can duck under the swinging arm and the great mace to deal a hard, oak enforced blow to Azog’s middle. Azog’s momentum flips him right over the top of Thorin, towards the Mirkwood. It doesn’t throw him too far, but it knocks the wind from him. Every warrior knows that to not breathe is to not fight.

It’s here that Thorin’s chance truly opens up. With Azog out of breath and on the defensive, Thorin runs forwards, driving him back, back, back. First with the shield, then switching his whole body, so that he can use the sword. Finally, though, Thorin’s advantage is all used up, because Azog can breathe again, and now he’s pissed.

It’s his turn to change tactics. Azog takes his mace in both hands and leans over it, so that it’s as though he’s holding a spear. Thorin gets ready. This is going to suck. It’s also his chance. Azog runs forwards, ready to thrust the moment he makes contact with Thorin’s shield. Thorin, for his part, holds off for one… more… moment…

As Azog clips his side (can’t let him know what’s going on) Thorin spins and, dropping the shield, brings the sword down like an executioner’s axe, cleaving through a single arm above the wrist, and then digging into the other before the the spiked shoulder pad makes contact with his riding armor. The great roar that reverberates off the frenzied snow and rocks has Azog’s orcs running, doing their best to make off with their leader. They need a Prime, or they risk going extinct.

Thorin, engaged to the last with a pair of particularly strong orcs, does not see Azog go, but he smells him. Just as he smells the stench of powerful fear, emanating from the rocks, and a hostile enemy, coming from the Mirkwood.

Thorin chooses to take his chances with the rocks, so he runs past Dwalin to wear Dori is reaching into a deep fissure between two boulders to draw out to creatures. The first is Nori, who gives one of the most infuriatingly shit-eating grins Thorin’s ever seen, and the second is the halfling, tucked into Nori’s insulated jacket. Thorin makes to approach, but suddenly the latter’s head turns, and a set of hobbit teeth are bared in a feral snarl.

Thorin stops. It’s not like he didn’t expect this.

BILBO

He’s here. The Raven Man is here, dressed in all black, looking like he just killed five people. Bilbo bares his teeth at him. He left him there. Bilbo can remember it clearly, that day in the ring.

…

_They cheer, like all others have done before them, and like all, Bilbo knows for certain, will do afterwards. Those in the stand cheer on the Champion, as though it’s fine for Bilbo to be in this situation. As though this is right. He has heard tales of Erebor, where there are no slaves. He has heard of Erebor, the land of the Strongest Prime. He has heard tales of Erebor, where his salvation lay._

_He is in Erebor, and they are no different from those in Dale and every other town of dwarves and man. Bilbo scoffs to himself. What a fool he’d been, to believe that the Ereborian King would free him. No, he sits content on his throne, watching Bilbo as they toss him the key and release the dogs._

_They said Erebor was Free._

_Bilbo wishes they had told him that it wouldn’t be Free for him._

_Bilbo fights the dogs, like a good Champion. He does heavy battle with wild animals; fitting, when he is one himself. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make him fearless. It’s as this fear increases that something- or rather, someone, responds to it. That someone is directly behind him, where the king is at._

_Bilbo keeps moving, but as this scent wraps around his mind and body, making his world a little bit better, Bilbo has hope again. Maybe, just maybe, the King will help him after all. Maybe, if he's really reacting like that._

__

…

He was left, though. Even though the Sneaky One brought him food and made him promises he tried to keep and saved Bilbo’s life, Bilbo was still left to rot by the Raven Man, and so Bilbo will not go so gracefully now. Not when he’s to die, with the way his back and leg are bothering him.

Through this train of thought travels the strange smell of Alpha Prime, urging Bilbo closer, to stretch his arms to the pillar of safety standing not far from him. He doesn’t, though. He has had enough of dwarves and he’s had enough of alphas and he doesn’t wish to be more involved with them than he has to.

So, he clings to the Sneaky One and closes his eyes, and tries to will his painful back into compliance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, my B-day's in two days! Therefore, I get extra time now on the computer. Thanks for reading, everyone!


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened to Azog.

Azog sits- kneels, really, before the fire, unwrapping the soiled bandages. His men, his legion, have long been chased away. Even an injured Alpha Prime is stronger than those around him.

Steadily- always steadily- he clears away the dirty wrappings in one long strip. He may have lost his hand but- here, Azog’s gaze flicks to the rough hewn box to his left, and to his bladed club on his right- he does not need to loose capability. After all, the strongest orc will always win, so Azog must turn this… unfortunate consequence to his advantage.

He thrusts his naked stump of a hand into the fire, watching flesh smoulder and burn into one large scab.

He had heard the dwarven king was odd. He had heard that the other Prime was soft handed in all things. He had heard wrong. He pulls his burned over wrist from the fire and stares at it for the moment, committing to memory everything that happened a week ago.  

He lowers the stump. No doubt about it, the dwarf who had paid him and supplied him with information had been wrong. That dwarf is dead now, as the price for misinformation is awfully high.

Deep in the stone cavern, Azog the Defiler glances at the manacles the dwarven bastard had been in before Azog had finally taken the last of his miserable life and tossed the body to his men. 

He reaches for the rough hewn box, revenge in his pale, sunless mind.

Azog is done standing just out of sight of the Ereborian King, as he has for weeks now.

Revenge is the order of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter, so the next update will actually be the second story in the series. Thanks for reading!


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